


Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)

by abovethesmokestacks



Series: Sweet Dreams [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Cupcakery AU, F/M, Fluff, I mean there are cupcakes involved, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Reader Insert, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, and also cupcakes, because apparently the characters run me instead of the opposite, how could it not be tooth-rotting fluff?, let Bucky be happy, now with extra added angst, with hints of My Blueberry Nights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-06-09 18:36:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6918502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He came in for the first time on a Tuesday, after a week of sporadic passes where he looked like he wanted to come in but couldn't work up the courage. </p><p>In which reader runs a night-open cupcake shop and Bucky, well, needs a cupcake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brooklyn Blackout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SithHappens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SithHappens/gifts), [loupmalin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loupmalin/gifts).



> It turns out I can write stuff that does not reduce me to tears. Inspired by a very interesting tumblr convo with the amazing SithHappens, because Bucky needs a motherfreaking cupcake, and I love baking. Dedicated to Sith for the lovely idea and encouragements and to Loup because Bucky and cupcakes will always be relevant.

He came in for the first time on a Tuesday, after a week of sporadic passes where he looked like he wanted to come in but couldn't work up the courage. Before that, there had been one incident where you had seen him standing outside, face almost planted against the front window, eyes wide as he took in the selection you had placed on display. You had wanted to open the door and tell him to come inside, but no sooner had you set foot on the other side of the counter than the man's head snapped up, looking like a deer caught in headlights before bolting off down the street.

Tuesday evening, with an hour and a half left until closing time and no customers, the sound of the bell above the door had you peeking out from the kitchen. The last two hours of the night were usually the graveyard shift. No matter how much your idea had proven fruitful, there were not that many people who craved cupcakes past 1.30 am in the morning on a weekday. The man didn't quite look like a cupcake kind of guy either, his rugged exterior clashing with the soft design you had gone for when you started this place. He was tall, looked well-built under the army-type jacket and the dark wash jeans he had on. A navy blue baseball cap covered his face, framed by a curtain of long, brown hair that reached just past his strong jaw. He was the kind of guy you might get a bad feeling about had you met him in the street at this time of night, but in here, he looked rather lost and unsure.

”Good evening, sir,” you greeted him, leaving the kitchen to stand by the counter.

He flinched visibly, his gaze flickering to you, revealing a handsome face with steely blue eyes, plump lips and rather beautiful cheekbones. Had it not been for the startled reaction and the look in his eyes that bordered on panic, he would have painted the perfect picture of a confident man who knew just how handsome he was.

”What can I get you tonight?” you continued, offering a pleasant smile in an effort to assuage his unease.

”Coffee, black,” he bit out, letting his gaze sweep over the selection of cupcakes in the display case.

Some of the more popular flavours had already sold out. The butterscotch pecan cupcakes had been gone within two hours, the strawberry-mango soon after that. The last blueberry-oatmeal cupcake had left the store half an hour earlier, a bleary-eyed woman heading to work buying it to enjoy on her coffee break. You left him to ponder the selection to fix him coffee. Despite the odd opening hours, coffee was still a popular choice of beverage, which you found odd. Personally, you couldn't go anywhere near the stuff after 4 pm, or you'd be a mess the rest of the day.

The pot held just enough for the man's order, the black liquid sloshing as you picked it up and poured it into a cup. He was still pondering his choices when you returned to the counter, setting down the cup on a small tray next to the till.

”Find anything good?”

Still skittish, he hastily turned his head from the display to you, his voice a stutter that clashed with his tough exterior. ”I- um, I...”

”Can I make a suggestion?”

Relief flooded his face, and he gave a grateful nod. It happened sometimes. People who came in for the first time, no preferences, no plan. They got lost in the browsing. You took the opportunity to look at him again; the eyes, still obscured by the baseball cap, scanning the cupcakes, the 5 o'clock scruff, hands firmly stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. Most of your customers were straightforward. If they didn't know what they wanted or if they wanted to try something new, it was relatively easy to find them a perfect cupcake. This man, for all his external roughness, had something hidden behind his eyes that was at odds with him, a darkness, a brewing storm. Grabbing a dish, you pulled out your pick, setting it next to the cup of coffee.

”What's that one?” he asked, rifling around his right pocket for money.

”Brooklyn Blackout. Darkest, most decadent chocolate cupcake you'll ever find.”

He snickered at the name, his lips pulling up into a quick smile. 

”Something funny?”

”No!” he quickly added, as if fearing he'd offended you. ”No, no, it's just... It's fitting. How much?”

Still rifling through his pocket, he managed to pull out a couple of crumpled-up bills.

”Don't sweat it. This one's on me.” You paused, then held out your hand, introducing yourself.

”Bucky,” he supplied after a few seconds of slightly awkward handshaking.

”Well, then, enjoy your cupcake, Bucky. I'll be in the kitchen, just call for me if you need anything.”

You caught his affirmative nod before you turned on your heel, grabbing the empty coffee pot, and walked off into the kitchen to start clean-up for the night. Looking around, you heaved a sigh. Cleaning the kitchen wasn't by any means your favourite task of the day, but it was a necessary evil. Scrubbing away splotches of frosting, dustings of flour and loading the dishwasher with pots and pans, it was a way to reset the place. Bad days, good days... It didn't matter. By 4 am, the place would look just like it had at 9 pm.

Halfway through, you chanced a peek into the shop. Bucky was still there, sitting by one of the tables, his cap resting next to his tray. You couldn't help but smile, taking in the expression of absolute enrapture on his face, a smudge of chocolate frosting on his nose. Giving a short whistle, you had to bite your lip not to laugh at the way he jerked up and looked wildly around before spotting you leaning out into the doorway. You touched your index finger to your nose, and Bucky hastily mirrored you, his cheeks reddening a bit when he noticed the frosting on his finger. Stifling a chuckle, you ducked back into the kitchen, grabbing a rag from the sink as you went.

Cleaning had never gone by that fast, or at the very least, it hadn't felt that fast since opening night. It was silly, you realized, getting so giddy about a customer. New customers came in all the time, some of them were even cute. Yet somehow, Bucky's presence had your heart doing somersaults in your chest. You danced around the kitchen, meticulously wiping off surfaces and scrubbing the stove top, until you could use the stainless counter tops as mirrors. Perfect reset, perfect start. Only thing left was tidying up the shop, and that was easy. Smile in place, you headed back out into the shop, a bounce in your step.

”Hey, would you-”

You skidded to a stop, your heart shrinking in your chest. Bucky was gone, the tray with his coffee mug neatly pushed to the middle of the table. He'd managed to slip out without a sound, leaving the place feeling hollowed and lacking. It pained you to admit it, but you had hoped he would still be here, silly as it might be. You took a deep breath, trying to push away the deflated feeling that the empty front room brought down on you. Dejectedly, you emptied the display case, packing up the cupcakes in boxes, placing them in the large fridge in the kitchen. You saved his table for last, working through the room slowly. When there was nothing left, you bit your lip and marched up to the table.

”You sly son of a bitch...” you mumbled fondly when you saw the tray.

Arranged neatly on the tray was the cupcake wrapper, completely free of crumbs, and the empty mug of coffee with three smoothed out dollar bills and a napkin tucked under it. You pulled out the bills, folding them in half. You'd have to ring them up tomorrow first thing. Taking the tray back into the kitchen, you washed up the mug by hand. When you went to grab the wrapper and the napkin, your gaze halted on the latter. On it, scrawled with script almost too neat for him, were two words.

_Nice try._


	2. Italian Stallion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you guys are so sweet (pun very much intended) with the feedback I’ve been getting for this fic! It’s fun to write and it doesn’t end in tears, so it’s all good. We’ll venture into Bucky’s POV for this chapter, so I’m hoping I got his character right.
> 
> As always, this is for my lovely girls SithHappens, who supplied the lovely thoughts around this chapter’s cupcake, and loupmalin who will forever be my partner in crime and source for all things Brooklyn.

He was there again.

God help him, he couldn't stay away. Since returning to New York, Bucky had made tentative tries to jog his memories, starting with visits to Brooklyn. He'd walk around what he'd been told were his old stomping grounds, looking for anything that might spark some recognition. He recognized street names, found alleys that he was pretty sure held some significance, but the dots refused to connect in his mind. Finally, he'd just given up hopes on finding himself there, satisfied to simply walk around. It sure as hell beat staying in the tower sometimes. Stark had not exactly welcomed him with open arms, and Bucky himself swore that the spacious room in the Avengers tower was just temporary. He'd been on his own before, and he'd come to like it.

Finding the cupcake shop had been entirely accidental, at least the first time. He'd ventured away from his usual route, his eyes flicking nervously around as he assessed his environment. Despite the progress made on his... condition, he was still wary of venturing outside his comfort zone. He can't help thinking now that he was drawn there. Tucked inbetween a barbershop and a stationary store, was the smallest bakery he'd ever seen. In a fit of curiosity and possibly plain stupidity, Bucky had crossed the street to look at the colourful display of baked goods. His scattered memory had provided him with the word ”cupcakes” as he'd let his gaze sweep across the display. Huge, sumptuous ones with an almost pillowy dollop of frosting. Bite-sized miniature cupcakes set on lollipop sticks and cupcakes in every colour imaginable. Food had never been a priority during his Winter Soldier days, conditioned to be efficient, enduring. Longer missions that required patience had meant scavenging for food, stealing if necessary. The bare necessities, nothing indulgent.

A movement in the periphery of his field of vision had made him snap up and flee when he saw you behind the counter looking at him. After that, it had taken him the better part of a week and a lot of less than stealthy passes from across the street before he finally put his foot down and went inside.

The visit still haunted him two weeks later. The warm atmosphere, your kindness and ease, and that cupcake. He hadn't been able to stifle a snicker when you told him the name. Brooklyn Blackout. If there was another cupcake fit for an amnesiac former Brooklynite, then he hadn't found it yet. While you puttered around in the kitchen, he'd savoured every bite of the cupcake; the rich and soft cake, the creamy custard filling oozing out of it and the sumptious chocolate frosting. Had it not been for your whistle and surreptitious tap, he'd probably have gone all the way back to Manhattan with frosting on his nose.

As much as Bucky tried to stay away from the bakery, he kept erring into the neighbourhood, not even realizing until he spotted the neon sign above the door, at which point he turned on his heel and left. He managed to explore much of Brooklyn's east side, all the way down to Coney Island, the familiar-but-different places demanding his absolute focus and keeping him from straying into thoughts of you. Coney Island was... strange. Memories of a smaller Steve, hotdogs and bouncing auburn hair willed their way to the front of his mind, and for all the nostalgic feel emanating from the place, it wasn't the same as the one in his memories.

He was back at Coney Island tonight, if for no other reason than the familiarity the place sparked. The boardwalk, the shops, the ferris wheel, it tugged at something in him. He had walked for a while, stopping only briefly to jot down errant thoughts in one of his notebooks, hastily sketching store fronts and name signs. Around 2 pm, he hurried to the nearby subway station, intending on riding it back to Manhattan and the tower. His stomach grumbled, and Bucky bit down. His resolve started crumbling five stations later, and when the people at the back of the car started staring, he got off, walking the remaining blocks to the bakery.

Crossing the street was easier this time, although Bucky hesitated for a second by the door when he noticed the lone customer sitting by the counter, engrossed in conversation with you. His stomach gave another growl, and he forced himself to open the door. He'd gotten off the damn train for this, no way he'd turn back and wait for the next. The bell pealed his arrival, and your gaze immediately flitted to Bucky, an expression of recognition blooming on your face.

”Hello, stranger,” you said, cocking your head. ”Thought I'd never seen you again.”

Flustered, Bucky couldn't manage anything else but a shrug, his left arm gripping the cuff of his hoodie tighter to make sure the hand wouldn't slip through. Keeping part of his focus on the patron by the counter, he walked up to the display case. Last time, he'd been too overwhelmed by the choices, not being able to pause on each type to see what it was called, what flavour it might be. Some of the cupcakes, Bucky noted, were easy to peg. Death by Chocolate, another monstrosity with dark chocolate frosting and what looked like hot chocolate fudge rippled over it. Pumpkin King, where the intense, orange cake was just visible under a layer of thick, whipped cream, dusted with spice. Others had names that meant nothing to him, and he had to rely on looks alone to guess what flavour it might be.

”Want me to give you a recommendation again?”

Bucky kept his eyes on the cupcakes, shaking his head 'no'. His eyes eventually fell on a cupcake that looked like it was made of light and sunshine. 

”I'll have one of those,” he supplied, pointing to it.

You bent down to peek through the shelves, emerging with a smile as you grabbed a plate, picking out his chosen cupcake with a pair of tongs.

”I swear, it has nothing to do with the actor,” you stage whispered as you walked to the till.

Bucky had no idea what you were talking about, but gave a perfunctory nod and made a mental note to find out what the name of a cupcake had to do with an actor.

”Anything to drink?”

”Coffee?” Bucky then looked down at the cupcake. Coffee went with everything, right?

”Are you sure?” you asked. ”It's pretty tart. Would go better with lemonade. Or ice tea. Or both. Store made,” you added when his gaze turned to you. ”I am pretty sure I will soon have the carpal tunnel syndrome to prove it.”

”What?”

”Sorry, that was- that was me trying to be funny. I'll get you coffee, if you want it.”

”Lemonade sounds fine,” Bucky replied, right hand already searching for the five-dollar bill he had stuffed in his jeans pocket. ”Will you let me pay this time?”

”Will I get a proper goodbye if I let you?” you rebutted, putting down the glass of lemonade on the tray next to the cupcake.

Bucky smirked, holding out the bill in answer.

”I'm gonna hold you to this, you know.” You punched the price into the till, the cash box ejecting with a sounding _”ding”_.

Bucky picked up his tray, turning to head to the same table he'd sat at last time. ”Keep the change.”

He could hear you laugh and close the cash box, and something like pride and satisfaction rose in his chest. At the table, he opted for sitting with his back against the counter, feeling somehow safer with a clear view of the entrance. Bucky heaved a sigh. He was still trying to get past all the automatic reactions that were no longer entirely necessary, not in these situations. 2.45 am in northwestern Brooklyn, not exactly a war zone.

He turned his attention back to the sweet treat in front of him. It was far fancier than anything he'd ever seen, standing out gloriously from the other cupcakes on display. Set in a pale yellow wrapper, the cake felt soft in his hand. Safe from view, he let his metal hand slip through the cuff of the sleeve to carefully peel off the wrapper. The fragrant smell of lemon teased his nostrils, paired with the delicate colours, the frosting swirled into a ruffled peak topped with a yellow glaze and lemon zest... It left him speechless. Were cupcakes supposed to be works of art? Hell, Bucky felt like taking a bite of the cupcake would be sacrilege.

Tentatively, he still took a small bite, through the soft cake and the lush, creamy frosting, followed by a sparkling taste of tart but sweet lemon on his tongue. In his defense, Bucky tried to pace himself, but he ended up inhaling the cupcake. His glass of lemonade sat untouched, and he hardly even noticed when the other customer left. Folding the wrapper, Bucky wished he'd brought more money.

”Hey.”

He tried not to show how your sudden greeting had spooked him, caused his left hand to bang into the underside of the table with a loud, sharp thud before dragging the sleeve back over it. His right arm shot out to grab the glass of lemonade, taking a deep gulp as if to hide evidence that he'd not yet touched the beverage. The cool liquid shocked his senses, and he forced it down.

”You okay?” you asked, eyeing Bucky's startled form.

”Yeah. I'm good, I'm fine.”

To his bewilderment, you pulled up the chair opposite him and plopped down.

”Cupcake good?”

”Delicious, thank you. Kinda makes me wish I was walking around with more money in my pocket,” Bucky confessed with a small smile.

”It's one of my favourites, too,” you confessed, picking up the liner and unwrapping the folds, twirling it in your hands. ”Haven't made it in a while, so I figured it was due for another appearance.”

”What's with the name?” Bucky asked, thinking of the way you'd explicitly mentioned how it was not named after an actor.

”Work hazard,” you replied with a laugh. ”Or maybe just a cupcake hazard. Creative names for everything that doesn't already have a funny name. The lemons in the cupcake and the glaze are Amalfi lemons. They're a bit sweeter than regular lemons, kind of like key limes are sweeter than other limes? The frosting is made with mascarpone. So it's all very Italian. I actually weighed between naming it The Italian Job and Italian Stallion.”

”So why'd you pick Italian Stallion?”

”Much more fun,” you laughed. ”Anything this sweet and cute named after an action star has to be good, right?”

Bucky mentally added ”action star” to the epiteth, taking another sip. Prepared for the chilly drink, he allowed himself to taste the sweetness and the tartness. ”Same lemons?” he asked, nodding to the glass.

”Mm-hmm,” you nodded enthusiastically. ”And some ginger. Rounds out the flavour.”

Nodding, Bucky swallowed, trying to pick out the flavour from the lemon. It was subtle; a warm, lingering feeling in his throat. He'd tried to get better at this, at eating and tasting since his first visit. Food was no longer a simple matter of sustenance. He'd take long breakfasts, if the day allowed for it, nursing his coffee until it went cold, trying out different dishes. Oatmeal with brown sugar had sparked a memory of chipped bowls and warm milk. He'd tried smoothies on Tony's insistence, but hadn't taken a liking to it. Sam had dragged him to a cajun restaurant in Lower East Side for lunch one day, and the amount of scents alone had Bucky's head spinning. Steve had gone with him to Brooklyn on a strictly daytime trip, finding a couple of delis from their time, still in business after all these years.

”Bucky?”

”Hmm?” Bucky looked up, finding you still sitting on the chair, eyebrows knit together.

”Drifting off there, huh?”

”No, I just... It's good. The lemonade, I mean.”

You nodded in thanks, getting up from your seat. ”Have to get started with clean up. Remember to say goodbye before you leave, okay?”

”Promise.”

Bucky watched you get up from your seat, surprised at the urge to get up himself. When he was sure he was alone, he dug out the notebook and pen from his back pocket, turning up a blank page.

_Italian Stallion + actor (action?)_

_Getting up when someone else leaves table – old custom?_

_Cupcakes_

He underlined the last word three times for good measure, closing the notebook and putting it back. The clock on the wall to his left told him he'd been there for almost an hour. Last time, he'd snuck out, too embarrassed by the frosting-incident to dare say goodbye face to face. Leaving the money had been an impulse, something within him insisting it was the right thing to do. He'd flattened the bills between the fingers of his left hand, sneaking up to the counter to get a new napkin onto which he wrote his little message. Now, you had asked him to say goodbye, a proper one with words and possibly a wave or a promise to come back.

Finishing the lemonade, Bucky set the glass on the tray along with the plate, refolded the wrapper and set it down with the napkin next to the glass. Taking the tray, he walked up to the counter, searching for a bell of some kind that he could ring to get your attention.

”Hey, you still there?” he finally called out, pleased to hear the sound of quick, light steps approaching.

”Look at you, keeping a promise,” you teased, pulling the tray towards you.

”Yeah, I know,” Bucky deadpanned, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards. ”I need to get going. Thanks for this, doll.”

He hadn't meant for the last word to slip out, but in the moment, it seemed so fitting and so natural for him to say it. If you thought it was untoward, you didn't let it show. Bucky turned to leave, both hands again buried in the pockets of the hoodie.

”Bucky, wait.”

He turned back, seeing you dive under the counter to emerge with a small box. Hurrying over to the display case, you slid it open and picked out an Italian Stallion cupcake, placing it gingerly in the box and handing it to him.

”One for the road,” you insisted, nudging the box forward.

”I don't have any money,” Bucky protested meekly.

”I insist.”

You locked eyes with each other, trying to fight it out in silence, the small box between you. There was a spark in your eyes that wouldn't bend to Bucky's solemn stare, and he finally took the box from your outstretched hand.

”Thank you,” he grumbled, quickly changing hands so that his metal fingers curled around the small handle, the sleeve of his left hand covering him completely.

”Don't you dare tip me when I'm not looking.”

”I'll be back.”

You stared at him, squinting your eyes in a way that brought out a lovely wrinkle on the bridge of your nose before relaxing again. 

”I'll count on it.”


	3. Give Us'more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the comments and kudos. I turn into a squiggly little mess with each one! This chapter took a bit longer to finish, but I’m hoping it will be worth it. I’ll post the recipe for this chapter’s cupcake on my tumblr at some point today, and the recipe for chapter 1′s cupcake should get posted after the weekend. :)
> 
> For SithHappens and loupmalin, who both deserve all the cupcakes in the world.

It turned into a game for you. Every night at 7 pm when you started preparing for the night, baking and setting up the display, you'd look out onto the street and guess. Would he turn up tonight? You couldn't decide if it was silly or even bordering on pathetic, but you kept playing with yourself, refining your parameters as the days passed to not only include the dark street outside, but also the cupcakes you baked, your mood, everyone else's mood. Apart from him showing up very late, it was impossible to go on precedence alone, and most nights left you disappointed. You liked the idea of Bucky coming back, he'd all but promised.

Some nights, when you felt hopeful, you'd bake something special, put a little extra oomph into presentation and set one aside in case they would run out over the course of the night and he'd drop in late. They were the nights you styled your hair, dabbed on a little lip gloss before opening and hoped like hell. He was a peculiar man, Bucky. Hard to read, yet polite and softspoken. Dressed like he was hiding, in dark colours and covering clothes, but with a commanding presence. Although he'd only been in twice, you hadn't failed to notice how he went out of his way to only use his right arm, always making sure to cover up the left. You'd always loved a good puzzle.

Of course he came back on a night you had deemed a no-show. You weren't really surprised about that. What did surprise you, however, was the time of night he decided to show up. Last time, he'd walked through the doors just after 2.45 am, and the time before that he came in around 2.30 am. You glanced at the clock on the wall as if to confirm that your eyes were not deceiving you. Your favourite mystery customer had shown up at 11 pm, looking like he'd been dragged through hell. His hair hung limp around his face, there was tension in his broad shoulders as he took in the shop, the customers spread out at the tables, and you could see the dark circles under his eyes from where you were standing.

”This is a surprise,” you said, smile in place.

Bucky's eyes found yours, his tense stance easing up a bit. He offered a tired smile in return, pulling out a wad of bills from the right backpocket of his jeans.

”I came prepared.”

”Win-win for us both, then,” you teased, walking over to the display case, picking up a plate as you went.

His eyes swept over the different cupcakes, the fatigue so glaringly obvious to you. Had he always looked this worn out, or did you only notice it tonight? Up close, you could see he hadn't shaved in a long time, the scruff long past a 5 o'clock shadow. His face looked slightly sunken in, and his gaze was tired. It was as if he couldn't focus on any single cupcake, instead skipping back and forth and then trying to start over. You kicked yourself for not having saved any of the plum compote cupcakes from yesterday. Quickly going through the alternatives, you settled on the one that always made you feel better, sliding the case open and picking it out, wordlessly moving to the till. Bucky followed, and you thought you caught a flash of gratitude in his eyes.

”Rough night?” you asked tentatively, moving to pour him a cup of coffee. You wouldn't even try to fight him on this tonight.

”You could say that,” Bucky affirmed, dropping a $5 bill on the counter.

You returned with his coffee, setting it down next to the cupcake and taking the bill. Bucky waved his hand when you tried to return the change, and if he didn't look like he'd keel over from it, you would've smacked him over the arm. Grabbing his tray, he turned around, only to find the table he had sat at the past two times was taken. He stood frozen, looking at the the remaining empty tables as if assessing them in detail, hesitating at each.

”Hey, why don't you sit here?”

He looked back at you, at the three bar stools lining the counter to the display case. You felt your heart leap in your chest when he let out a small breath and took the seat closest to the till. Bucky began peeling off the wrapper, and you hurried off to clear two tables and refill the cups of two nurses from a nearby clinic. Two more customers came in, taking their sweet time before settling on two red velvet cupcakes, a mug of tea and a coffee to go. By the time they were done, two more tables had vacated, and one of your other regulars, Shannon, had come in. You zipped back and forth between the counter, the tables and the kitchen, charging Shannon for her blueberry muffin and lemonade, wiping off the table tops and loading the dishwasher.

”Mind if I sit?” you asked Bucky twenty minutes later when the place had quieted down a bit.

11 pm to 1 am was your rush hour on weekdays, and you took every quiet moment during that time to sit down. Bucky gave a nod, tucking his left arm closer to his body, and you plopped down on the chair next to him. He'd finished about three quarters of his cupcake, his cup of coffee almost drained.

”Ugh, I feel like a bad server now, I should be asking if you want a refill,” you mumbled, crossing your arms over the counter and leaning your head down.

”You work too much,” Bucky replied, shaking his head a little.

”Oh, really? That's rich coming from the guy who looks like he's been having the worst day of his life for a month.”

It slipped out before you had time to think, and your mouth pulled into a consternated O. ”That... was so incredibly rude of me. I am so sorry.”

Bucky shrugged his shoulders with a smirk that brought out crinkles around his eyes. ”'S okay. I look like shit.”

”Mind if I ask why then?”

You lifted your head from your arms, finding Bucky watching you with a calculating look in his eye. The attention brought a blush to your cheeks, the blue of his eyes mapping your face.

”Is it a job?” You rephrased, hoping to be both more specific and perhaps less intimidating.

”Yeah,” he finally conceded, turning his gaze back at the piece of cupcake. ”It's... a job. Hours are shit. Pay even worse.”

”So why'd you do it?”

”Because I can. Because... because I'm good at it.”

You knit your brows together. ”Please, don't tell me you're a mob enforcer or something like that.”

”No! God, no,” Bucky said hastily, sounding almost offended at the insinuation. ”No, it's...” He fell silent, seemingly struggling to come up with a good enough wording. ”It's... private security.”

”You do realize that sounds like mob speak for enforcer, right?” you laughed, lightly nudging his arm. It was rock hard, and you had to bite your lip not to make a snarky comment about having a permit for a concealed gun.

”I solemnly swear I am not working for the mob or anything similarly illegal,” he swore, holding up his right hand as if swearing an oath and trying to hold back a grin.

”Still not helping your case, buddy.”

You spun the chair around, almost dancing around the counter to grab the pot of coffee to refill his cup. Bucky popped the last piece of the cupcake in his mouth, emptying the cup before setting it down to let you pour him another. He seemed a little spryer, although the dark circles remained.

”You mind getting me one more of these?” he asked, holding up the dark brown wrapper.

You obliged, picking out the one with the largest swirl of frosting, setting it down in front of him. Bucky eagerly ripped off the wrapper, taking a huge bite, his eyes fluttering shut as he savoured the taste, the expression on his face positively salacious.

”Whaddaya call these?” he asked between chews.

”Give Us'more,” you replied, your face growing flush at the sight of his pink tongue darting out to lick his lips.

”Good name. Good cupcake. Didn't have anything like this back when-” His mouth snapped shut, fear flashing across his face.

”New favourite?” you hastened to ask, not wanting him to feel uneasy.

”Maybe.” His face softened immediately. ”Top three.”

”You've only been here three times.”

”So definitely top three, then.”

The two nurses got up and called out their goodbyes, thanking you for the cupcakes, and you waved them off. Leaving Bucky to his coffee and treat, you cleared the nurses' table, returning to the kitchen to empty the dishwasher and place the mugs and plates in an empty rack. You mixed together another round of red velvet cupcakes, carefully adding in cocoa and red food dye until the colour was as vibrant as you wanted it. It wasn’t by any means your favourite cupcake, there was no special taste, nothing that made it a red velvet except for the red colour, but people liked it because of that. You scraped the batter into the same polka dot liners as the previous batch, popping them into the oven and setting the timer just as the door chimed the arrival of new customers.

The night wore on, with customers coming and going. Some stayed, dragging out their visit as long as they could before hurrying off. Some rushed in, already late, but desperate for a sugar high to carry them through the night. Bucky stayed. You refilled his mug two more times, serving him another two cupcakes. The caffeine hit him hard, the fingers of his right hand thrumming rhythmically against the counter top.

”That's it, no more coffee for you,” you said an hour later when he scooted the cup towards you.

”What?”

”You've had enough to keep me awake by association. I should give you some camomile tea, or something else that's good for making people sleep, like, I don't know, an Ambien.”

”Why do you think I drink coffee?” he muttered, almost too quiet for you to hear.

It took a few seconds for you to process the meaning behind his statement.

”Are you not sleeping, Bucky?”

He looked up at you, the fatigue still evident even after four cups of coffee and enough sugar to give a toddler a trip of their lifetime.

”Is that why you keep coming here in the middle of the night, why you want coffee with everything?”

”Well, you're pretty much the only place open,” Bucky quipped, his face turned slightly away from you.

”So you walk around Brooklyn all night, is that it?” you asked incredulously, leaning forward to force eye contact.

”Not all the time. Just... sometimes. It's a good neighbourhood. Used to live here when I was... when I was younger. Couple of blocks that way.” He pointed vaguely towards the kitchen.

”Bucky, you gotta sleep...”

”I do. I nap. I make do. Why the hell are you up in the middle of the night?” He turned the inquiry on you, desperate to get away from the prying.

You heaved a sigh. ”Because I wanted to do something I loved. I didn't want to be stuck in an office every day for forty years. I didn't think it was fair that people who work nights don't have access to fresh baked cupcakes, so I started this place” you said, shaking your head. ”And because I am a terrible morning person.”

”I'm a terrible person,” Bucky whispered sadly, turning the coffee cup, the scraping sound filling the space between you. ”Every day.”

”Hey...” You gently reached out your hand, fingers grazing the rough stubble of his chin, tilting his face up towards you. ”I thought you were going to stop making it sound like you work for the mob.”

His lips quivered, wanting to break into a smile, but he fought it, forcing them into a thin line.

”I should go,” he mumbled, getting up from the chair.

Lightning quick, your hand shot out, grabbing his left wrist. His reaction was instant, pulling out of your grip just a fast as you'd gotten a hold of him, cradling the limb against his chest. You caught a glimpse of a glove-clad hand, clenched into a fist, peeking out from the sleeve. Bucky's eyes were wide with fear, and your own eyes had widened too, but in surprise. Your hold on him had been brief, but enough for you to realize his wrist, hell, his entire arm, was far too firm to just be muscled. You scrambled to find the take out boxes under the counter, refusing to break eye contact for fear of Bucky running out of you.

”One for the road?” you asked, voice timid, when you finally found the cardboard container.

You didn't wait for him to answer, running over to the cupcakes and grabbing another s'more cupcake, fingers tripping as they tried to fit the flaps together so they'd hold the box closed. He had managed to move a few feet from the counter, looking like a cornered animal.

”I'm sorry,” you said, setting down the box on the very edge of the counter, closest to him. ”I didn't mean to...”

”Thanks,” he interrupted, snatched the cupcake box and walked briskly out of the shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We ended on a slightly angsty note, but I promise this will have a happy ending. :)


	4. Nut My Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and reader is making it exceedingly hard for me to keep this light and fluffy like I intended. I apologize profusely for the angst they forced me into.
> 
> In other, happier news, the recipe for the Brooklyn Blackout cupcakes has been posted to my tumblr. Sadly, I may need to take some time before I can try out the recipe for this chapter's cupcakes. I am effectively on cupcake hiatus, at least for the rest of the week.

”Hey, sweetheart. Hey!”

You ground your teeth, fists clenched so hard your nails were digging into the palms of your hands. You hated Saturday nights, and this one in particular. Nearly three months had passed since Bucky fled from the shop. After the first two weeks, you stopped playing your game, convinced he wouldn't return. It wasn't as if you expected him to open up to you, you didn't know each other well enough, but during that evening, a small hope had flickered that maybe, just maybe, you'd work your way up to being something akin to friends. His hasty exit and subsequent absence had effectively dashed that hope, even if it took some time to realize it.

It was as if this conviction opened the floodgates to bad luck and negativity. Entire batches of cupcakes burned for no apparent reason. Frostings you had memorized and could recite in your sleep curdled. You were surprised you hadn't yet accidentally switched sugar for salt. On top of all the mishaps, customers had steadily decreased, and for the past two weeks, you'd stayed closed Monday, moping around in bed.

Letting out a frustrated breath, you turned around. They had come in about twenty minutes ago, four guys, drunk past any sense, ordering coffee and asking repeatedly if you had bacon. Having been on the receiving end of a string of lewd comments throughout college, you dodged their attempts at pulling a line on you, and eventually managed to get them to order a cupcake each and pay before staggering over to the table closest to the window. If there had been anyone else in the shop, you might not have been on edge so much, but as it were, they were your only customers, the clock lurching slowly past 2.30 am, and you just wanted them to leave. They made you feel uneasy, a sensation you never liked, least of all in the space that was supposed to be your happy place.

Plastering on a fake smile, you left your post behind the counter and walked over to their table.

”Say, babe, what are those?” one of them asked, all smug smile and pretentious attitude, pointing to the display.

You followed the direction of his finger, finding the cupcake pops you'd made for today.

”Cupcakes,” you replied, your voice almost too happy, too accommodating. ”On sticks.”

”Really? That's a thing? Putting things on sticks?”

He was not gonna let you get out of this with any kind of subterfuge, and you didn't much feel like mouthing off to them at this point. Instead, you just nodded, letting out a muffled ”Mm-hmm.” The guy's hand came up to your hip, sliding to your ass then grabbing it.

”Well, I got a stick. You're a pretty little thing. Why don't we... what is it you bakers do? Mix? No, wait! Stir!”

Asshole's friends let out a raucous round of laughter, high-fiveing each other, and Asshole himself gave you a leery smile, his eyes expectant and clouded by inebriation. You couldn't move, petrified in a state of livid rage and indignation. Your hands trembled, itching to take a swing at this jerk. He'd take offence. Might even try to punch back. Would probably go to the police. _But oh, it would be so worth it..._ you thought, wanting to jump out of your skin as a slap hit your ass.

”Is there a problem here?”

Creep's hand pulled away from your behind, and you jumped visibly, breath caught in your throat as you turned on your heel. _How had you not heard him?_ Bucky stood just inside, his hand gripping the door handle hard enough to cause his knuckles to turn white. His eyes slowly took in the scene, drifting between you and the group of guys. He had never seemed more intimidating than in this moment, every muscle in his body tensing, shoulders squared and gaze dark and menacing. The boisterous smiles were wiped clean off the men's faces, recognizing Bucky as a threat, an alpha that outranked their own leader.

”Not at all, pal,” Creep answered, attempting a disarming smile. ”Just making conversation.” He looked up at you. ”Isn't that right?”

You shot him a furious look, then stalked away to the counter, Bucky hot on your heels. Part of you were glad to see him, even though it had taken so long for him to come back, but an even bigger part of you seethed. Just another night of life fucking with you, of having flashbacks to college, of wandering hands, of guys being guys and only backing down when a more worthy competitor presented himself.

”Are you okay?” Bucky asked in a low voice, his face softer now, eyes full of concern.

”I'm fine,” you bit out, grabbing a cup to pour him his coffee. The rings under his eyes were as dark as ever, and it hurt you to see he was still not sleeping

”He's a jerk, that's no way to treat a lady.”

”I said I was fine, grandpa. Okay?” You tried to tamp down your anger, tried to keep your hands steady as you tilted the pot to pour his coffee. Tonight was not a good night. A series of loud beeps sounded in the kitchen, signaling that the batch of banoffee cupcakes you'd had to remake because the first one burned was done. ”Shit...” you mumbled, massaging your temples, setting down the cup in front of Bucky. ”I'll be right back. Just... browse, won't you?”

You rushed into the kitchen, afraid that even a second's delay would fudge up your second attempt at this relatively easy cupcake. Removing the cupcakes from the tin on to the stainless steel counter to speed up the cooling, fingertips aching under the heat, had you cursing under your breath. You worked as quickly as you could, chopping up a bit of chocolate to use as decoration once the cupcakes were cool enough to top with whipped cream. The faint peal of the bell above the door caught your attention, the knife instantly falling from your hand. This could be good. More people, not just the group of overgrown frat boys and Bucky. Maybe one of the construction workers from two blocks over, or the nurses from the clinic. Anything to even out the atmosphere and put you at ease.

When you got back out into the shop, you did a double take. Upon first glance, the place seemed empty. The table by the window was unoccupied, mugs abandoned, wrappers on the floor. You blinked, as if by some miracle you were hallucinating and the idiots would reappear. A subdued cough to the left had your head turning, finding Bucky standing in front of the display case, hands as always shoved into the pockets of the army jacket. You squinted.

”What did you do?” you demanded, closing the distance between you.

”Hmm?”

”Bucky.”

He avoided your gaze, pretending to mull over his options for what to eat with his coffee. Your temper flared again, suddenly thankful to have the case between the two of you.

”What did you do?”

”We talked,” he offered succinctly, still not looking at you.

”Bullshit,” you rebutted sharply. ”What the hell did you do?”

He finally looked up, his face arranged in a mask of nonchalance. ”I didn't do anything, I swear. Just talking. They were outta line, I just- I wanted to-”

”Bucky, I get that you were trying to be nice, but you can't do this. You can't just swoop in and scare off customers. This is my shop, I'm responsible and believe it or not, I can take care of myself.”

”They were being jerks!” he protested, gesturing back to the empty table. ”I saw what that guy did to you, he was being inappropriate!”

”I don't need a goddamn knight to come save me!” you exclaimed, a bit louder than you intended, but right then you didn't care. Grabbing a plate, you slid open the case, grabbed a cupcake and stalked over to the till.

Bucky followed you warily, movements slow and calculated. When he came to a stop before you, his hand was already outstretched, a crisp $5 bill between his index and middle finger. You snatched it from his hand, angrily punching the buttons of the till, releasing the cash drawer. You chanced a quick glance, catching the small shake of his head as Bucky indicated he'd still not take the change. You closed the drawer with a slam, waiting for him to take his tray and go sit at a table.

”Aren't you gonna tell me what this one's called?”

He nodded to the cupcake, one of the few you made without frosting or decorations. It worked best without embellishments, the rich, flavourful cake needing no other fixings than the caramelized crumble that topped it like a jagged crust protecting the softness below. You stifled a humourless chuckle.

”What?” Bucky asked, thinking the worst had passed. ”Is it something funny again?”

”It's fitting,” you replied testily.

”Well, don't leave me hanging.”

You turned, walking off to the display case again. You kept a small box of paper flags you could write on and stick into cupcakes. It was mostly for fun, writing the name of the cupcake, or just encouraging messages for customers who ordered their cupcakes to go and seemed like they could use a kind word. Grabbing one, you found the pen you kept in the same box and hastily scribbled the name of this particular cupcake onto it. You returned to counter, stabbing the small flag into the cupcake with gusto.

”Take it to heart,” you sniped, then marched into the kitchen.

This night, this fucking night, it couldn't get worse. You walked to the very back of the kitchen, leaned up against the wall and slowly sank down until you were sitting on the floor. Resting your head against your knees, you wrapped your arms around you, shielding yourself from the world. All the pent-up emotion flooded you; anger, irritation, sadness and unbearable helplessness coursing through you, forcing you to bite your lower lip hard so as not to burst into tears. You had just wanted a regular night, with regular customers and cupcakes that didn't burn and maybe even closing a bit early so you could have done clean-up while listening to ABBA just to force your mouth into a genuine smile and then rushing to bed as soon as the last table was wiped, the door locked and the last lamp turned off.

Slightly loosening the tight grip of your arms, you coaxed yourself into taking deep breaths, trying to calm yourself. This had to be the worst of it, and you'd made it. Bucky was still here. You had cupcakes to finish. Maybe they were cool enough to frost. Frosting was good. Frosting was meticulous and demanded your focus. A knock on the doorway had you looking up. Speak of the devil. You weren't sure he could see you where you sat, but you sure saw him, looking as hesitant as the first time he walked in.

”You shouldn't be back here, you know,” you called out, crawling to your feet.

”I've been told I'm not the best at following orders,” Bucky hedged, taking a step back so that he was technically not inside the kitchen.

You snorted, walking up to the cupcakes on the kitchen counter, pressing the wrapper-clad part of them to test for temperature. Still warm, the cream would melt right off if you frosted them now. You could pop them in the fridge for a while. Crouching, you pulled out a a new baking tray, quickly transferring the banoffee cupcakes to it.

”I... I ate your cupcake,” Bucky continued, and from the corner of your eye you could see him twirl the flag between his fingers, the name flashing by almost too quickly to catch.

”Yeah?”

”I didn't mean to... belittle you, or make you feel... bad. I- You shouldn't have to suffer through something like that.”

”Well, I do,” you said, propping a hand on your hip. ”I do, and as much as I'm glad to see chivalry isn't entirely dead, I don't need you to save me. I told you.”

It was Bucky's turn to snort, holding up the flag, still twirling it. ”Yeah, sure did. I just want you to...” He bit his lip, his eyes struggling to keep focused on you. ”...to be safe.”

”How many times do I need to tell you, Bucky, I can take care of myself. You think that,” You pointed to the shop, emotion bubbling up again inside you, ”was the first time? You think I don't know how to handle guys like that? I've had a bad couple of days, so maybe I wasn't up on my game, but I could have handled the situation fine on my own. I don't need you!”

The last sentence came out way meaner and accusatory than you intended, but you couldn't help it. Neither could you help yourself from continuing, all the things you'd kept to yourself bursting forward.

”I don't need you to keep tabs on me, to take care of me. Shit, have you even looked at yourself? You don't sleep, and don't give me that crap about making do. I don't know if it's got anything to do with your arm, but maybe you should take care of yourself a bit before you go out and try to play Prince Charming with someone else!”

Traitorous tears had forced their way to the corners of your eyes, and you hastily looked away to angrily swipe them away. You cursed quietly to yourself, cursed this day for happening. You should have just stayed in bed, spent a day with your good buddy, Netflix. When you turned back to face Bucky, you immediately saw that, oh yeah, this day could get worse. All of his friendly demeanor had been drained from his face, from his body. He stood rigid in front of you, face and eyes void of emotion. His hands hung limp by his side, and you couldn't help but glance at his left. Covered by a dark leather glove. Bucky noticed you looking, and instinctively pulled the sleeve of the jacket over it. He took a step into the kitchen, to the cupcakes on the tray, slowly pushing the flag into one of them.

”Maybe you should take your own advice,” he said flatly.

He was out of the kitchen before you had time to say anything in response, out of the shop and possibly halfway down the street by the time his name finally fell from your lips. Hand shaking, you picked up the cupcake Bucky had put the flag into, the angry, black letters glaring back at you.

**NUT MY PROBLEM**

Your arm shot out, sending the tray with the remaining cupcakes flying with a loud clatter. A shallow sob escaping, you sank down onto the floor. This was not how the night was supposed to go. Bucky had come back, and that was supposed to be a good thing. Saying those things to him, you couldn't say you didn't mean any of them, but you could have phrased it differently, could have been patient and waited for him to volunteer information himself. You weren't supposed to fuck things up and push him away, because surely that was what had happened.

Tears were still running down your cheeks when you got up, leaving the flag-topped cupcake on the counter to go close up. No reason to keep open anymore. You locked up and cleared the front room in silence and with the lights turned down. The kitchen was left in disarray. No amount of disinfectant or sweeping could make this go away.

Not tonight.


	5. Whiskey Lullaby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are so sweet, and I appreciate you being patient with this chapter. I’ve been called in to work until midsummer, 23rd June, so depending on my hours and what kind of day I’m having, chapters might be more sporadic. I’m still not sure how long this fic will be, but maybe 2-3 chapters more. All depends on whether reader and Bucky will continue to stab me in the back. I had plans, damn it. Recipe for this chapter’s cupcake will be posted to my tumblr as soon as possible.
> 
> This chapter also contains spoilers for Civil War.

_”Frostbite!”_

The nickname pulled Bucky out of his reverie, his senses catching up to him. The sound of a gun cocking to his left had him swooping around, the assault rifle lining up and firing on instinct. His enemy fell down, a look of shock and pain painted on his face. It never got easier for him, even if he was now in control of who he injured or killed. Bucky allowed himself a second to breathe, to put away the image of the HYDRA soldier. He didn't know how not to remember them. Of all the things that had to stay sharp and crystal clear in his still fractured mind, it had to be this.

 _”Where's your head at, Barnes?”_ Clint's voice rang through the ear piece. _”Cap will have all of our asses if you so much as get shot. Focus or go home!”_

Go home, that honestly sounded like a good idea right about now. Bucky shook his head, took aim and started stalking forward. Him, Steve, Clint and Wanda had been out on a mission for close to two weeks now, chasing down HYDRA cells in the back of beyond. He wasn't even completely sure where they were right now, only that is was cold and desolate. At the time, he'd jumped at the chance to get out of New York, elated that the team would finally allow him on a longer ops. Now, all he wanted was to go home and unwind and...

A fleeting image of you and the bakery flickered through his mind. Strong coffee and the sweetness of cupcakes on his tongue, your warm smiles...

”It's just a dream,” he muttered bitterly to himself, pushing away the images.

He had wanted to go back, had barely made it to the subway station before something had tugged at his heart and told him to go back. Forcing his feet onto the subway, he'd sulked all the way back to Manhattan and the tower. Things had been going so well, and he was trying to get better. Steve, for all the support he'd given, still expected him to one day wake up as the Bucky he'd been 70 years ago. That man would never come back, no matter how much of Bucky recovered. He'd be a patchwork at best, forever reminded of the years he'd never be able to reclaim.

Visiting you, it had been a start. Bucky had noticed how the part of him that was buried for so long, the part Steve wanted to bring back, would bleed through whenever he came to the bakery. However cautious he was, keeping his arm hidden, surreptitiously surveying his surroundings, you had always managed to inadvertently coax out slivers of the old Bucky; a smile here, insisting you keep the change, calling you 'doll'. It was an effortless companionship, no expectations of immediate progress. In the time between his visits, he'd still go to Brooklyn, still err into your neighbourhood. Some were honest mistakes, his mind leading him there just to see the lights flooding out the windows. Some were deliberate, quick passes and glances to make sure you were okay. As much as Bucky tried to stay detached, he couldn't help worry about you, care about you. What small recollections he'd pieced together of Brooklyn gave him no peace thinking about you on your own in that shop through the nights.

All of that was ruined now. Bucky wondered how Steve could do it, deal with all the fame that came with his superhero identity. Although ostensibly a free man, Bucky found the freedom strange. When informed that the exhibit at the Smithsonian would be altered to fit history, he'd blanched. It had been weird enough to see himself as he'd been, young and unbroken, at a time when that person was like a fleeting memory. He didn't want to be reminded of the Winter Soldier, didn't want the rest of the world to know. James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th, 32557038, was all but dead. What he had become didn't deserve neither a place in the history books, nor a place in a museum on prominent display.

A bullet bounced off his left arm, and instinct once again took over as Bucky turned, took aim and fired. He was tired, still fighting the urge to sleep. The treatment had helped with the trigger words, but they didn't take away the nightmares. His first week back, Bucky woke up screaming every night in a cold sweat, ripping the bed linen to shreds. Steve moved from down the hall to the adjoining room, to help him, but Bucky told him to move back after he woke up to Steve in a choke hold. If there was one upside to cryostasis, it was definitely the absence of nightmares, but the process was too dangerous to keep up on a daily basis, and it took too long to bring him out of it to be a viable option. It was easier to just... not sleep. He'd perfected the cat nap, long enough to regain some strength, but short enough to never slip into REM sleep and nightmares. He knew he looked like shit, long before you had teasingly pointed it out to him. His team, his friends, had yet to make a comment, but Bucky had no doubt that they knew he was struggling. No one said a word when he'd volunteer to take first watch, never tried to talk to him during flights because he'd drift off to that place inbetween sleep and awake to recharge. You were the only one to unapologetically tell him he didn't look well.

Of course it had hurt, your words piercing him far deeper than any bullet. _I don't need you_. As much as your words had stung, Bucky couldn't deny the sharp truth that hid in them. Just because he could save someone didn't mean they needed it or wanted it. The sight of you, so obviously uncomfortable and being groped by that... animal, had set him off. He blamed it all on the person he had been, the Bucky who Steve had said would charm all the ladies and make sure they got home at the end of every date. Maybe that wasn't the way things were done anymore, and he didn't need his memories to decide he didn't like it. Still, he was grappling so much with his fears, his nightmares, with trying to find his place in a world that had passed him by, one that did not seek to manipulate him. He ended up neglecting himself and reverting back to scare tactics when a threat presented itself. Nevermind he wasn't the one who he perceived the threat against. You'd said you'd had bad days, and he'd still hurt you in kind, running out, leaving you alone. He was no better than the guys he'd scared off.

 _”Bucky!”_ He once again shook himself out of his thoughts. There was a stressing urgency in Steve's voice, and he could hear the sound of bullets hailing down over the comms. _”Not to intrude on your moment, but I need you, buddy!”_

And there it was. Someone who needed him. Your bitter words stung his heart again. Bucky let out a shaky breath, allowing himself one final moment of pity before locking away his emotions, running off to Steve's last known position to help out his friend.

They were at it for two more days before Clint came back from recon to tell them there was no sign of more activity at the HYDRA camp. Bucky tried to focus on the fact that they would get to go home, instead of the many soldiers who had died by his hand. His body felt heavy as lead as he stumbled into the quinjet, his knees buckling as soon as he leaned against the wall. He'd been awake for close to 37 hours, having only had a short nap the night before. The others were exhausted, too. Wanda climbed into the side cargo hold, bunching up her coat and immediately falling asleep. Steve sat with Clint up front, helping the archer with take off. Bucky had no doubt the two of them would fall asleep as soon as they had entered the coordinates for the private air strip outside New York into jet's computer. That left him, fighting the weariness for as long as he could. Ten minutes later, Clint and Steve were fast asleep, snoring in canon. Wanda's breaths were soft and rhythmic, her body curled up like a cat's. Bucky relaxed, letting his eyes drift close. He needed to sleep, just a short nap, just a...

 _He's kept himself awake for so long his dreams overwhelm him. He knows he's not himself, not the him he's been trying to be. He's the Soldier, clad in the jacket that looks like and feels like a straightjacket with straps reaching across his torso, and black cargo pants, his inhales and exhales filtered by the mask. His hands grasp an assault rifle. He's chasing something, but Bucky can't tell what it is, just that he needs to find it. He stalks through a landscape that is a blur around him, his hands automatically bringing the gun up. He's close. Bucky slows down, his footsteps soft and soundless. His mark appears in the distance, too far away for him to make out any features, but he just knows this is the person he's supposed to terminate. Part of him tries to fight. He doesn't want to do this. He is not a soldier anymore, not a mindless machine. Another part of him, the Soldier, advances, aim already trained on the person in front of him. Headshot, clean and efficient_.

_Closer, closer, closer._

_There is something familiar about them, something that tugs at memories Bucky feels like he should have. Soft lines, a sense of safety, a scent of... something. He places a finger on the trigger, squeezing lightly, ready to fire at any second. The target whirls around to face him, and the Winter Soldier pulls the trigger, quenching the screams of horror that Bucky lets out._

He started awake, all laboured breaths and cold sweat. His left hand had gripped the seat hard enough to leave indentations in the metal. Wiping his brow with the sleeve of the tactical jacket, Bucky forced his breathing back into steady inhales and exhales. Just a dream. His team mates were still sleeping, and he let out a sigh of relief. Not bad enough to wake them. He was okay.

”Your name... is Bucky,” he mumbled to himself, keeping his gaze trained on his feet. ”Your name is Bucky. Your friend's name is Steve Rogers. You are safe.”

He stayed awake for the rest of the trip, not daring to sleep for fear of another nightmare. By the time the flight system computer beeped to announce their approach, Bucky was starting to feel like a caged animal, confined to the small space of the quinjet.

”Guys...” Clint's voice had an edge of resignation to it, and Bucky immediately perked up. ”We've got company.”

”How did they find out?” Steve wondered, clearly not expecting an answer.

Bucky strode over to the cockpit area, glancing out the window. Parked outside the fence perimeter that surrounded the private airstrip Tony had procured at some point after the incident in New York, was a news van. One reporter and two techs stood outside, waiting by the gate. The tinted car the team had driven to the air strip was parked right next to the gate inside the fence, and Bucky knew they would not be able to leave without answering questions. If they tried, they would most likely be followed back to the city, and that in itself was a risk.

”Is everything okay?”

Bucky looked over his shoulder, spotting Wanda sitting up from her improvised bed.

”Reporters,” he replied succinctly, his mind already working out how best to get from the hangar to the car without getting caught on camera too much.

”I'll handle it,” Steve added, giving Wanda an assuring smile. ”I'll take lead, get them away, answer whatever questions they have. You, Clint and Bucky stay together, head for the car. Do not stop, do not look at them, do not listen. Okay?”

Everyone nodded, and Bucky returned to the cargo hold. He could have done without this. Wanda seemed nervous too, wringing her hands in her lap, sparks of red flashing from her fingertips. He offered her a smile, knowing she'd been on the receiving end of a lot of harsh criticism. She was just a kid, a young girl who didn't deserve this. Your face flashed through his mind again.

”You gonna be okay?” he asked Wanda, fighting the impulse to replay the events from his last visit to your bakery. _Not everyone wanted or needed to be saved._

Wanda nodded, but Bucky could see she was still fidgety. He revised his game plan. Steve takes lead. Clint and him follow. Shield Wanda. Straight line for the car, open left side backseat door, let Wanda in, follow, close door. Clint in the front passenger seat. Steve taking the driver's seat. Smooth exit.

Getting back from a mission was supposed to be relieving, like letting air through a valve, releasing pressure, finally being able to be tired, exhausted. It was not supposed to feel like another ops, not supposed to be planned in detail. Clint maneuvered the quinjet into a hangar, and together, the team collected their equipment. They shared a look before Steve exited through the cargo hold, Bucky and Clint making up a united front for Wanda, who followed closely behind the two. Steve, ever the polite figurehead, gave the news crew a wave, and Bucky suppressed a scoff.

”Let the circus begin...” Clint muttered under his breath as Steve jogged ahead to give the rest of them a chance to sneak to the cars while the reporter was busy.

No matter the plan, how swiftly they moved, Bucky couldn't help but overhear Wanda's name being mentioned, followed by his own. He bit down hard, quickening his steps to reach the car where he almost pulled the door off, ushering Wanda inside.

”It's gonna be fine,” Bucky whispered, not sure if he was addressing Wanda or if he was reassuring himself. He stayed outside the car, keeping an eye on Steve and the reporter, ready to intervene if needed.

Steve returned seconds later, his face solemn. No one asked him what the reporter had wanted. It was easier to not know, to avoid the papers and newscasts. Bucky got in and leaned back in his seat, letting his eyes lazily follow the world outside as Steve pulled out through the gate and set off for home.

* * *

The door clicked shut behind you, your hands gripping around nothing but air. _Another freaking Saturday night._

After the incident with Bucky, you'd stayed closed for a week, taping a sign to the door that said _Taking a few personal days, be back soon!_ in your neatest script. Your first day closed, you cleared out the display window, and cleaned the kitchen top to bottom, futilely trying to ignore the stabs in your heart as you swept up the banoffee cupcakes you'd swept off the counter the night before. It wasn't supposed to end like that.

You hated the way Bucky had gotten under your skin, the way you'd anchored your nights to his presence or absence. You hated having yelled at him, pushing him away when what you sorely needed was a friend. Your hours left you with little time to socialize, and though you made sure to stay closed over major holidays, you didn't see your friends much. Some stayed in touch, even coming in every now and again on weekends to say hello and buy a cupcake. Most were more acquaintances than friends by now. You were email holiday greetings-friends, awkward hello's and forced conversations when meeting in the streets-friends. You knew your regular customers better, could read them the second they stepped inside your door; their mood, their needs, their orders. Until Bucky stepped inside, you'd never really missed having someone close to share with, but something about him made you want to get to know him, to connect beyond orders and pleasantries.

Now that chance had been squandered, and you spent the rest of your week off in your apartment, sleeping through the sadness that refused to leave you, replaying the moment in the kitchen over and over. Your irate outburst turned more vicious with every repeat, twisted Bucky's face into a mask of anger and disappointment, his exit into a definite declaration; _never coming back_. While last time you'd held out hope for his return, now you were under no illusion that he would ever set foot in your bakery again.

You opened up again after a week, the sense of gloom still heavy in your heart, but you couldn't take another day in bed, wallowing in your loneliness. Although you lived in a converted office space above the bakery, you hadn't been back in the bakery after the thorough cleanup, and you couldn't help the smile that graced your lips when you found a couple of notes taped to your own, some assuming you had been sick and wishing you a speedy recovery, some expressing a wish for you to come back soon. It made it easier to start, to mix together the first two batches, to arrange the display for the night and fill the case by the till. You were almost nervous by the time you unlocked the front door, body tingling like it had when you first opened.

It was by no means a busy night, but you were thankful for the handful of customers who came. They greeted you with smiles and enthusiasm, but few stayed to enjoy their baked goods. Had they known you were opening tonight, they said, they would have come earlier. _Duty calls, gotta run, will you be open regularly from now on?_ You nodded and wished them a good night, and tried to ignore the emptiness of the place inbetween visitors.

For a few days, you got back to normal capacity. People stayed, and you felt a little less lonely. You tried a couple of new recipes, and delighted in their success. No burnt batches, no curdled buttercreams. It almost felt like... like _before him_. You could almost pretend like the past months had never happened. Almost.

Inevitably, Saturday night rolled around again and turned into a bad rerun of That Saturday, minus Bucky himself. Burnt cupcakes, another frisky drunk, you alone in the shop. You managed to get the drunk to leave after he'd tried to grab you when you charged him for a strawberry-lemonade cupcake, but the near miss had your hands shaking for minutes afterwards, the sensation of phantom fingers gripping you lingering no matter how you washed your hands and rubbed the spot where he'd grabbed you. The darkness outside became intimidating, every passer-by a potential nightmare. You closed up at 2 am, rushing through clean-up and hurrying back to the apartment upstairs, fingers stumbling over the control panel keypad as you punched in the code to activate the alarm. Safe behind the door, you squeezed your eyes shut, biting down hard.

”Fuck, fuck, fuck...” you wheezed between clenched teeth, pounding the wall with your fists.

It wasn't so much that you'd ended up closing early, or the drunk himself. It was that you realized you could have given anything in the world for the front door to open and for Bucky to stride in, perhaps not to physically remove the drunk, but to, at the very least, simply be there as a friend, as someone you felt at ease with. It angered you that despite your ardent claims of being able to handle any situation, you still ended up in one and found yourself missing him for the very reason you'd pushed him away.

Furious with yourself, with the night and the drunk and the world and his wife, you stomped up the stairs, very nearly breaking the lock on the door to your apartment as you stormed in, heading straight for the kitchen. It happened every now and then. Shit day, shit night, not even the therapeutic clean-up helped. Though you were deadtired after closing up, you were too upset to be able to go to sleep. You'd resort to the one thing that would help you work through the aggravation, the worry, the sadness.

Ragebaking.

Fuck recipes and measurements and all the dainty colours and sprinkles. One does not ragebake with structure, with plan, with forethought. You skidded into the kitchen, turning on your oven and tearing open cabinets and pulling out ingredients. You found a bottle of whiskey you'd gotten for your birthday a few years back, barely one glass down because you had realized whiskey was not your thing. Weighing the bottle in your hand, you unscrewed the cap, taking a swig. The amber liquid burned down your throat, settling as a smolder in the back of your mouth and in the pit of your stomach. Your face scrunched up, but despite the unpleasant feeling, the bottle stayed with you.

Butter and sugar mixed. Swig. Eggs and vanilla. Swig. Flour, baking soda, salt. Swig. Pause. One very quick mississippi into the batter. You tore through cupboards looking for liners that didn't scream of polkadots and cutesy flowers, finally finding the most boring paper liners known to man, and for the life of you, you couldn't remember how you'd ended up with them. Running on nothing but whiskey fumes you filled the liners, clanking the spoon hard against the tin, shoving it into the oven. Everything was silent, save for the low hum of the kitchen appliance. You hated the silence.

”Needs more whiskey,” you told the apartment, words slurring.

There was more whiskey. There was whiskey caramel, whiskey buttercream, whiskey songs and just plain whiskey. You managed to dent a piping nozzle beyond repair and stub your toe against a cabinet on your way to get a new nozzle. Piping out frosting on the last cupcake, one eye closed and tongue peeking out between your teeth, you came to the conclusion you had underestimated whiskey, pleased to realize your conflicting feelings about tonight were slowly smothered by it in favour of an all-consuming tiredness. Arranging the cupcakes on a tray, you put them into the fridge, stumbling to bed where you promptly collapsed facefirst into your pillow, sleep welcoming you with open arms.

If you dreamed something, you didn't remember it once you woke up, sunlight filtering in through your bedroom windows, teasing your senses awake. You cracked an eye open, instantly regretting the action. Everything was too bright, your head feeling like it was filled with molten lead. There wasn't even the mercy of not remembering why you woke up like this, that part was all too clear. Drunk. Rage. Whiskey cupcakes. And then some more whiskey. Fumbling for your phone, you pressed the home button to see what time it was. You groaned. Just before noon. Rolling over, you buried your head deeper into your pillow, trying not to gag at the dry taste of alcohol in your mouth. Altogether, yesterday couldn't be chalked up to anything but a supremely bad idea.

Rolling out of bed, you wobbled to the kitchen, grounding your teeth against the skullsplitting headache. You prepared coffee, opening the fridge in search of something edible that you were sure you could keep down. Staring right back at you was the tray of cupcakes. For a ragebaking project, the looked pretty okay, considering the state you had been in. Maybe it wasn't the best way to start a day, but you were curious to see what they tasted like, and so picked one of the cupcakes. The scent of whiskey and caramel hit your nostrils, and though your stomach protested, you couldn't deny the combination was not bad at all. With a little creative maneuvering, you poured yourself a mug before all of the coffee had been funneled into the pot. Taking your mug and the cupcake, you moved to the living room area, sitting down on the couch and turning on the tv. It was a little late for cartoons, but there had to be something.

Eventually, you settled on a news cast, listening idly at what fresh hell had been brought upon the world. Balancing the cup between your knees, you peeled off the wrapper, taking a small bite. A startled noise escaped you. The muffin was good, buttercream not bad, and the caramel drizzle was just the right balance between sweet and smokey, and you absently wondered if you could recreate this while sober.

_”...and to conclude our broadcast, the Avengers have once again been a subject of discussion at the global summit. Our reporter, Allison Malone, got an exclusive with Captain America himself.”_

You perked up at the mention of the Avengers. The city had been buzzing about them since the battle of New York, for better and for worse. Personally, you found the idea of superheroes a bit exciting, and sure, Captain America being from Brooklyn was a nice little piece of trivia to bring up. Footage of a small airfield appeared on your tv, and you could make out Captain America moving towards the camera. Two men flanked behind him, and you thought you could spot a woman trailing behind them. Captain Rogers jogged towards the reporter, and the image zoomed in on him.

_”Captain Rogers, what can you tell us about the mission?”_

_”No comments.”_

_”And what about the statements made by Secretary Thaddeus Ross, about the quote, dangerous elements, unquote, in your team? Specifically Wanda Maximoff and your friend James Buchanan Barnes-”_

_”I've tried to stay away and not to meddle in politics.”_ Captain America halted suddenly, the reporter skidding to a stop to thrust the microphone back against the fence. The Captain's blue eyes looked right into the camera, his gaze imploring and hard. _”But if I were, I would respectfully ask Secretary Ross to step back and look himself in the mirror before making such harmful accusations.”_

With that, he turned around, and headed back to the car. The camera briefly zoomed out, then started zooming in again on the Captain as he headed for a car, and you could feel your heart skip a beat. Leaning up against the black SUV was a man, dark brown hair partially obscuring a tired but all too familiar face and a silvery prosthetic left arm that glinted in the sunlight.

”Bucky?” you whispered, shock hitting you like crashing waves.

You'd only followed the reports from the Sokovia accords cursorily; you knew about the attack against accords, the death of King T'Chaka of Wakanda, the manhunt for the Winter Soldier, but hadn't been bothered to find out more. Bucky, your Bucky, the insomniac wandering Brooklyn by night, was James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier, an Avenger?

”Shit.”

After Washington, the news of SHIELD, of HYDRA and the assassin known as the Winter Soldier was all over the news, the internet, the papers. The exhibition at the Smithsonian had been temporarily shut down, which you, at the time, had cursed as you had planned on going. This much you knew of Bucky Barnes: presumed dead, brainwashed by HYDRA... and now, apparently, an Avenger. He'd been in your shop, and you'd chewed him out. What little he'd revealed about himself made a lot more sense, and you felt like kicking yourself for all the nasty things you'd hurled his way.

”Idiot...” you muttered to yourself, switching off the tv, gulping down your coffee.

It was hard to focus on much of anything after that. You took a shower, letting the hot spray wash over your body, imagining the last remaining bad feelings from yesterday. What was that quote? It's not a bad life, just a bad day? Your thoughts wandered to Bucky. He'd been too far away for you to see him clearly, but you wondered if he had been sleeping, if he was okay. He had been standing, which was comforting. You towel dried your hair, wrapping the towel around your body. He'd come to you, to you of all places. He could have gone to a bar, to a night open diner, you could easily count five within a two block radius from the bakery. He'd come to you, to your bakery, and you'd pushed him away.

You made the decision in a heartbeat, changing into a pair of jeans and button-up shirt before breezing through the kitchen, grabbing the tray of cupcakes as you went. You picked up your keys and wallet before heading out the door and down to the bakery. After a little pottering, you activated the alarm again and headed out, steering your steps to the nearest subway station. You rarely had any business in Manhattan, and the closer you got to your final station, the more nervous you got, a swarm of butterflies suddenly swirling in your stomach. This was crazy. It couldn't possibly work. _You had to try_.

Getting off, you exited the station, and set your sights on the tower soaring high above the skyscrapers. Manhattan was different from Brooklyn, a completely different atmosphere, a different pulse. People seemed to hurry more, and it rubbed off on you. As you turned up the street where the main entrance to Avengers Tower was situated, you were almost jogging, the box in your hand swaying precariously back and forth. You came to a stop by the front door, the glass bastion intimidating and grandiose. Just inside, you spotted people milling about, security guards posted at checkpoints.

”You can do this...” you mumbled under your breath, but the pep talk did little to make you feel calmer.

Taking a shaky breath, you pulled open the elegant glass doors, heading straight for one of the security check points.

”Hi, I have a delivery,” you greeted cheerily, offering the guard a wide smile.

”For?”

”Bu- Mr. Barnes.” You managed to amend yourself in time, the formal title sounding so foreign in your mouth.

The guard held out his hand and you handed over the box, lifting the lid to peek inside. You didn't miss the way he raised an eyebrow at the content.

”Whiskey Lullaby?” he questioned, eyebrows still knit together.

”Mm-hmm,” you affirmed, holding out the receipt for him to sign

He accepted it, looking over the paperwork briefly before signing. You took the receipt back, pulling off the customer part and handing it to him.

”Thanks a lot,” you said, futilely looking past the guard, as if by some miracle Bucky would be down here. ”Make sure he gets them, okay? Don't nibble.” You winked, earning a smirk from the guard, and walked back outside, a sense of relief flooding you.

You'd done your part. Now it was all up to him.


	6. Easy As Pie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this took forever, and it frustrated me to no end. I’ve had days when I’ve come home from work and wanted to write, but couldn’t get anything done. It’s finally here, though, and I am so happy for all your kudos and comments. You all deserve cupcakes. And Bucky. Maybe Bucky and cupcakes? I hope you enjoy the chapter, the fluff is strong in this one. Recipe for the cupcake will be posted to my tumblr soon.

_”Welcome back, Mr. Barnes.”_

The voice of FRIDAY still startled him, and Bucky doubted he'd ever become used to a disembodied voice talking to him, let alone the idea that he should talk to it if he needed anything. Everyone else treated the AI like a living, breathing person, but Bucky couldn't wrap his head around how to interact with someone who wasn't there. No facial expressions, no body language, nothing to focus on.

As soon as they had gotten back to Avengers Tower, Bucky had sprinted from the car, barely hearing Steve calling out behind him. He'd stopped by the armory to turn in his weapons, not trusting himself with even a butterfly knife in his room, and the rest of his tactical gear before heading up to his room. In a whirl, he'd changed out of the grimy layers that had kept him warm in the biting cold, tossing them haphazardly into the laundry basket in the corner before changing into a pair of sweats and a longsleeved shirt, pulling on his baseball cap, a pair of gloves and his running shoes. They were the only items of clothing he'd requested since coming to stay at the tower. He liked running, the discipline and stamina required combined with the utter freedom of moving forward. The adrenaline rush that came with it was a bonus, keeping him awake just a little longer before having to take a nap. He knew Steve liked to run, and didn't hide his serum-improved stamina, but Bucky was not quite there yet. He'd keep his pace within reasonable limits, only occasionally speeding up to test his limits if he was sure he wouldn't be spotted. He favoured the Central Park trails, working his way around the perimeter of the park, tuning out everything but the sound of his even breathing.

He'd done his route twice, the unexpected homecoming welcome party having worked up his nerves. Both times, the stretch of trail leading up the hill off Harlem Meer had been pretty much deserted, allowing him the freedom of running at full capacity. The workout had left him with a peculiar sense of both peace of mind and alertness, easing him down from the rattled state his nightmare and returning home had sent him into. He needed to be more careful. Longer ops meant longer time away from steady routines, from certain accommodation, from managing his sleep.

_”Mr. Barnes? I am to inform you that a package arrived for you while you were out.”_ FRIDAY's voice rattled him again, and Bucky wished harder than ever that he'd know where to look. 

”A package?” he echoed, eyes skidding around the elevator. ”From whom?”

_”The invoice has yet to be entered into the database. A guard in the lobby signed for it, would you like me to patch him through?”_

”No! No, no, that's- it's fine. Where is it?”

_”It's been brought up to your room, Mr. Barnes.”_

Bucky nodded in reply, following the numbers on the panel as they lit up to show the floors as the elevator rose higher and higher. His room on the 85th floor was among the smaller set aside for the in-house Avengers, but honestly, he didn't mind. It was still bigger by far than anything he'd lived in, and more luxurious than he'd ever be comfortable with. He'd reluctantly talked about it with Steve, who had, well, not exactly managed to change Bucky's mind, but offered him some perspective. This world was still very much the future for them, their bodies tossed into it but their minds trailing behind trying to catch up. It was okay to enjoy the perks that came with being part of the group, of being an Avenger. It was okay to be uncomfortable, to feel like you sank through the bed because it was so soft, to be amazed and befuddled by everything.

The elevator doors slid open, and Bucky stepped out, walking past Steve's apartment, past another empty room, past a storage closet to the unassuming door that led to his own corner of the tower. The doors didn't have any locks, not in the traditional sense. He'd tried to follow the long-winded, technical explanation, but ultimately decided it didn't matter. It wasn't as if a lot of people had access to the private living quarters, and if they did, Bucky didn't have much in terms of personal effects that could get stolen. He wondered if this was another attempt by Steve to get him to realize he was not a soldier anymore, not confined to missions and debriefs, not stripped of personality and dreams. At the very least, he reasoned, it couldn't be anything dangerous. If it had been delivered to the lobby, they would have screened it thoroughly before sending it up to the private floors.

Bucky almost expected there to be some sort of explosion of streamers when he let the door slowly swing open. Everything looked like it had when he left; the drawer from which he'd pulled his sweats was still slightly ajar, the duvet on his bed still showed where he'd sat down to lace on his shoes. Stepping inside, letting the door close, Bucky peeked around the corner into the small alcove that held his small kitchen and dining area. He spotted his package on the kitchen counter, a white box, no markings. It kind of looked like...

_No. It couldn't be..._

In five short steps, Bucky was at the counter, his fingers trembling slightly as he carefully lifted the lid. He felt like his breath left his body in one go when he saw the contents. Six large cupcakes, each with a small flag pushed into the caramel-streaked frosting, forming an apology that both warmed him and scared him.

_James Buchanan Barnes_  
_I'm so sorry._

You knew. How you'd found out he couldn't fathom, but you knew. You knew who he was, and you had sent him cupcakes. Bucky stared at the baked goods, trying to make sense of the message. He desperately wanted to believe his first impression, that this was some kind of an apology for the encounter at the bakery, that you had somehow figured out who he was and still wanted him to come back. A small part of him, the part that constantly berated him and caused him to doubt, still managed to whisper its dissent. You couldn't possibly want him back... He'd walked out on you. Shame washed over him. If you were apologizing, you had to think this rift between you was your fault, more so than his. Maybe you weren't saying sorry to make amends. Maybe this was a final goodbye after all, a way of wrapping things up. One for the road that would never lead him back.

Gingerly, he picked up the cupcake with the flag that said Buchanan. He didn't remember it, not clearly, but he knew it was the name of a distant uncle. His mother had apparently insisted on it, and had used the name whenever she'd been upset with him, her tell that she meant business. Apparently, she'd been upset with him a lot, considering he got stuck with being called Bucky. Smirking, he took a bite, his teeth sinking through the treat. The flavours sparked on his tongue, his eyes going wide. Bucky quickly took another bite, chewing thoroughly to sort out the ingredients. Even though, as far as he remembered, he hadn't had a drink in well over 70 years, there was no mistaking the telltale taste of smoky whiskey, a pretty decent one too, if he wasn't deceived. He gave a short laugh under his breath. Of all things to suddenly remember, it had to be the taste of a good whiskey. Greedily, he took another bite, letting the whiskey-tinged caramel wash over his tongue. If this was a goodbye, then hell, it was probably the best he could ever hope for. 

Over the next four days, he savoured the remaining cupcakes, enjoying them in solace. It was a way to pretend there was still something to keep the dream alive. No one knew, no one ever would. Bucky could lock himself away in his room, close his eyes and feel your presence in each sweet bite. He tried to think of every possible name for the creation, torturing himself with images of your face from previous visits when you'd told him the names of the cupcakes he'd ordered, the way your nose would crinkle ever so slightly when you smiled. 

Who was he kidding? This was a terrible goodbye, long and torturous and not helpful at all. Bucky was just thankful there weren't that many around to see him wallowing as he plucked the penultimate cupcake. The secondary team with Tony in the lead had left the day before. Steve was out running circles around Sam, and Clint had gone back to his family. Being practically alone in the tower was both strange and oddly liberating. No one came knocking on his door, trying to coax him into coming along for something or other. He appreciated their concern, but at times their insistence felt forced, and he had been alone for so long, he didn't feel like he really did well in groups.

Munching on his cupcake, Bucky ventured out of his room and downstairs to the common room. The view from his own room was good, but couldn't hold a candle to the panoramic view of the Avengers tower common room. He passed the couches, moving down the lower deck to sit down in front of the large windows. Sometimes he'd try to piece together the skyline with the New York he remembered, but even though this city had been his home for most of his life before the war, it wasn't a city he recognized anymore. He had vague memories of going to see the Empire State Building as it was being constructed, he recognized the Flatiron Building and a couple of other landmarks, but they were anomalies in a cityscape that was all steel and glass and neon. Brooklyn, the kingdom of his youth, had changed, too. The house he'd lived in had long since been demolished and replaced with a fancy brownstone. Steve's house still stood, even got classified as a landmark once he was brought back, which everyone of course made sure to tease Steve about.

”It's alive.”

The teasing voice floated through the room, and Bucky turned around, half of the cupcake still in his left hand. Wanda stood on the top level of the common room, leaning on the railing, a playful smile in place.

”I'm- I- What?” Bucky stuttered, confounded by the statement.

”I was starting to think you had gone into complete isolation, I almost thought I was home alone,” she replied, descending the stairs to the middle tier, her black skirt swishing around her knees as she continued towards him.

”Oh... I just, I needed some time away. The mission...” Bucky's voice trailed off. It was so easy to blame everything on the mission. Most people wouldn't question it.

”I can see.” Wanda was clearly not most people. She nodded to the cupcake in his hand, Bucky swiftly moving it out of sight as if by some miracle that would make the issue disappear completely.

She plopped down next to him, sweeping he hair off to her right shoulder as she looked intently at the cupcake Bucky tried to keep hidden behind his left arm. When she quirked an eyebrow at his failed attempt to hide it from her, he reluctantly pulled it out, taking another bite.

”Who is she?”

”Who's who?” Bucky asked between chews, avoiding eye contact.

”The girl. The one you keep thinking about.” At his stunned expression, Wanda simply tilted her head, giving him a knowing look.

”She's...” Bucky struggled to find a suitable word for you. Not quite a friend, not anymore, but more than an acquaintance. So important in ways he would never be able to fully explain.

”Ah. Did she make that?” Wanda asked, pointing to the quarter cupcake Bucky had left.

”She's got a bakery in Brooklyn, I've... I've gone a few times.”

”That's why you're never here at night?”

”How did you-”

”You're not the only one to have trouble sleeping, Barnes,” Wanda replied, bringing up her hand to twirl it, thin wisps of red floating from her fingertips. ”It's getting easier, but I still get nights when there is too much... everything. Thoughts, images, memories. Everyone dreams, and it bleeds into my consciousness when I sleep, I can feel them all when I wake up. Everyone except you.”

”Because I'm out,” Bucky supplied, a sense of sympathy growing for the young woman next to him. He'd never thought he was the only one. He knew Steve had his nights of restless sleep. Tony was more often than not to be found in the workshop. He just never thought Wanda would be kept awake, too,

”Because you don't sleep,” she clarified, opening her palm to let the wisps dissipate. ”You going out is your way to deal with it. How long since you slept, really slept through the night?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but found himself dumbstruck when he couldn't come up with an answer. It had been so long since he'd slept a full night without nightmares. There might have been a night while he was on the run when he'd lucked out, too exhausted to stay awake and too exhausted to dream anything that would terrify him, but Bucky couldn't remember for certain. He'd just accepted that sleeping didn't work out for him, and so he'd first tried to live through the nightmares for a while, then tried to give up sleeping altogether to get rid of the nightmares, followed by his carefully contructed nap-plan.

”Do they know?” he asked dejectedly, venturing a glance at Wanda. ”Do everyone know about... about me not sleeping?”

”They're your friends, of course they know,” Wanda supplied, her hand coming up to softly stroke his arm. ”They care about you, they just don't want to push you. But Bucky, you need to get some sleep. I could help, subdue the nightmares...”

”No.” The answer came a tad too quickly, and Bucky regretted it the second he felt Wanda's hand falter on his arm. ”You're kind to offer, Wanda, but it would just be a temporary fix. They always come back. I don't know how to fix it, I can't-”

Something squished, and when Bucky looked down, his right hand had closed into a fist, crushing the piece of cupcake he had left. He let out a shaky breath, unable to ignore the stab in his heart. Everything he touched sooner or later turned to ruin, all too often by his own hand. You were no exception, and he wished there was something he could do, either turn back time and never go inside, or come up with something to fix himself.

”Does she know? About you and all of this?” Wanda let her gaze sweep across the room.

”Sort of. She knows I don't sleep a lot. Actually told me I looked like I'd had the worst day for a month.” Bucky let out a laugh at the memory, shaking his head before his expression sobered. 

”She sounds nice.”

”We had a... falling out a few weeks back. Things happened and I was being a bit of a jerk and left. Now she sent me these, and she knows my name. She knows who I am.”

”So you're going back?” Wanda prompted, taking a swipe with her index and middle finger of the smushed frosting from Bucky's hand, popping it into her mouth. ”Wow, this is pretty good.”

”What if she doesn't want me back?” The thought steadily lingered in his mind, but to actually voice it out loud made it seem like the only logical option.

”What if she does?” she insisted, discreetly wiping off her fingers on the tank top she was wearing.

”Kid, you don't understand, all that was missing was punches flying, and I'm pretty sure she wouldn't have been beyond trying to slug me.”

”That's not the point. You still have the opportunity. I will never see my brother again. Sometimes I wake up, still thinking he's here, searching for his presence and finding nothing but a void where he used to be.” Wanda's voice trembled, and Bucky could see the pain flashing behind her eyes. ”There is so much I would like to tell him, I would gladly give up this,” She flicked her wrist, sending angry streaks of red shooting through the air, ”to have him back.”

”I'm sorry, I didn't...” Bucky fell silent. Wanda never really talked about Pietro, at least not openly. He knew they had been twins, experimented on by HYDRA, and that Pietro had died during the battle in Sokovia. Maybe it was a combination of all those misfortunes that made Bucky feel so protective of her. She was too young to know so much misery.

Wanda sniffled and got up, smoothing out the pleats on her skirt: ”She's still there. Don't sit around thinking about whether she wants you to come back or not. Go back.”

”And what if she doesn't want me there?”

”Then you come back. Bring more cupcakes.”

With that Wanda left, her steps light against the stairs. Bucky looked down at the crushed cupcake in his hand again. He missed you, your cupcakes and the easy, unassuming companionship you two had had, but he couldn't deny there was so much that could go wrong with him going back. You knew who he was, and he didn't exactly come with a stellar history.

”If you don't go, I will hex you through the window and over the East River!”

* * *

You didn't expect him to come running back the very same night. Maybe you made the plum compote cupcakes again just because you felt like it. Maybe it was time to bring back the Italian Stallions the day after. Maybe it was just luck that almost everyone craved a s'more in cupcake form the day after that. You didn't expect him, but god, how you _hoped_. Your pulse would quicken night after night as the clock on the wall drew closer to 2 am, it would skip a beat in the most sensational way every time the bell above the door signaled a new customer. With each night, it became just a little harder to ease down from the anticipation, the skips turning almost painful as you realized he didn't show up. You told yourself you had done what you could, it wasn't like you could have marched into the tower and demand to speak with Bucky. Hell, you would probably have been detained. You'd spoken to him in the only language you could think of that you shared, and he had now made it abundantly clear that he didn't want to talk to you.

Thursday had slowly lurched into Friday, and a thin fog had swelled through the street, softening the world outside into muted grey colours and smooth lines. The lights further down the street looked almost like will-o-the-wisps, hovering high in the air, and the people that would occasionally pass the shop all floated by like ghosts. When Stan from the nearby metro station had stumbled in about an hour ago after finishing up his shift, you'd jumped with your heart in your throat. Stan had hardly noticed. So far, he'd managed to fall asleep twice over his cup of tea and granola cupcake.

”Come on, Stan,” you told the sleeping man playfully, nudging his arm. ”You know I love you, but your wife will have my head if you don't get your ass home.”

Stan stirred, yawning loudly and mumbling drowsy apologies at you, and you suddenly had an idea of how parents felt when they got the ”only five more minutes”-line. He quickly drained the last of his tea, crumpling up the cupcake liner and left, tipping his hat at you before exiting.

”Tell Joan I tried to send you home earlier!” you called after him, winking as he waved at you.

Clearing Stan's table, you whistled your favourite tune, taking your time to alternately walk, alternately sway your way to the kitchen, where you did a waltz as you placed the cup and plate on the rack and pushed it into the dishwasher, doing a little pirouette and pushing the on-button as you came back around. Taking a lap around the center kitchen island, still doing a semi-waltz, you broke off your whistling, singing under your breath as you headed back into the shop.

”While I'm alone and blue as can be, dream-”

The words caught in your throat. _How the hell did he do it?_ Bucky stood just a few steps from the counter, his gaze wavering as he looked at you. Gone was the perpetual cap that hid his face, and you were pained to see evidence that he had indeed not been sleeping, his cheekbones seemingly more pronounced, his jawline sharper. His hair was pulled back into a messy bun at the nape of his neck, arms hanging limp by his side, both hands covered by gloves. For a moment you both stood frozen in place, regarding each other, like participants in a stand-off just waiting for someone to pull first. You felt your heart swell in your chest. He'd come back. Bucky was here. He got your message, he came back.

Finally regaining control of your body, you rushed past the counter, closing the distance between you. Despite the obvious signs that he was not well, you had never been happier to see him. Coming to a stop in front of him, you got up on your toes to sling your arms around him, enveloping him in a tight hug. It only hit you seconds later, pressed flush against his chest that maybe this was not the best way to greet him, that you'd shock him and alienate him further. He only just came back, and you were already sending him running for the hills.

Then, suddenly, you felt a hand slowly slide along your side and up your back, gently pulling you closer.

”H-Hi,” you stuttered, your voice muffled by his embrace.

Bucky eased his grip, letting you take a step back. He looked less scared, the muscles in his face relaxed. Up close you could see the dark circles under his eyes, your brow furrowed at the sight of his fatigue.

”Hi,” he said, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

”I'm so glad you're back, I'm so sorry for- I'm- I-” The words fell from your lips, tripping over each other in an attempt to form an apology.

”No. No, no, I was rude and I hurt you,” Bucky countered, his hand coming back down to rest by his side.

You let out a barking laugh, shaking your head. ”Don't you dare take the blame, Bucky. I had a bad day, I... I didn't know.”

Bucky ducked his head, knowing exactly what you were referring to. You bit your lip nervously, afraid that any misspoken word would make things worse. 

”Come on.” You took hold of his left hand, feeling the hard metal through the soft leather glove, and tugged at it to make him follow you.

He looked shocked for a moment, but didn't resist, following you willingly to the counter where he took a seat at the same bar stool he'd sat at during his third visit. You poured him a cup of coffee, against your better judgment, trying not to smile as he drained the cup in one go.

”I wa-” He snapped his mouth shut, as if scolding himself before speaking again. ”Could I get a cupcake?”

”Sure. Do you want to pick one? Got a pretty good selection tonight.”

”Nah. You pick. Something good.”

You nodded, filling up his cup before you went to get him a cupcake. You hadn't baked anything with him explicitly in mind, and so your eyes swept over the different kinds, weighing the options against each other. You nixed the espresso cupcake and the granola cupcake, they were too sharp in taste and texture. It had to be something that felt soft and safe, like coming home, like...

_That one._

Sliding the case open, you reached into the far right corner, picking up the closest one with the tongs. You'd baked blueberry cupcakes on a whim, wanting something hearty, something that could comfort you at the end of the day. You'd put one aside and saved some frosting so you could enjoy it after closing. The frosting was spooned on instead of piped, the shape vaguely reminiscent of a scoop of ice cream resting atop the cupcake. You looked at the clock. 1.38 am. Maybe you could celebrate a bit ahead of time.

Walking back to Bucky, you set down the cupcake in front of him. ”Hold on,” you told him, quickly running into the kitchen.

In a few seconds, you'd grabbed the saved cupcake, the small bowl of frosting and two spoons, running back out. Bucky was dutifully sitting, his hands resting on either side of the plate. His eyes skittered over the cupcake, a hunger bubbling behind the stormy blue of his irises. Quickly, you put down the plate, digging out a spoonful of frosting and deftly shaping it by scraping back and forth between the two spoons until you had a nice scoop, plopping it down onto the cupcake.

”Welcome back,” you smiled warmly, raising the cupcake as if to toast Bucky.

He reciprocated, raising his own to almost touch yours. You tore off the wrapper, taking a generous bite of the treat, unable to stifle the contented moan that rose in your throat. The juicy berries were from a farmer's market in Carroll Gardens, just the right balance between tart and sweet, wonderfully enveloped by the vanilla infused cake and the sweet frosting. Bucky, to his credit, tried to pace himself, carefully peeling the wrapper, making sure no clumps of cupcake got stuck in it. He turned the cupcake over in his hand before taking a bite, his eyes fluttering shut in enjoyment and you couldn't help but feel just a little pleased with yourself.

”You know, you don't- you don't have to wear those.” You nodded to the gloves still covering Bucky's hands.

He stopped in the middle of a bite, his left hand clenching in response. You could understand him wearing the gloves, not wanting to be recognized or scrutinized for the bionic arm, but you also wanted him to know that he was safe here. You knew who he was, and he shouldn't have to hide.

”I mean, not here, I- I don't- I don't care,” you added, voice trembling as you watched his reaction.

Bucky's lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw muscles tightening under his skin. For a moment, you were sure this was it, that you'd done it again, that he'd leave again with no amounts of cupcakes and apologies enough to make him come back. The air between you stood still, and you tried to look as friendly and unthreatening as possible. When his fist unclenched, the leather groaning low, you felt the same relief flood you. Slowly, methodically, Bucky started tugging at the fingers of his right hand, pulling the glove off before setting to work on the left. You tried not to flat out stare, just observed him as he revealed himself to you, a gesture of vulnerability so contradictive to the hard metal that slowly came into view.

”How did you find out?” Bucky asked in a low voice, placing both his hands on his lap, safe from view.

”News. They interviewed Captain America, and you were standing next to a black SUV. Kinda zoomed in on the car when Cap walked away.”

”Zoom...” There was a defeated smile ghosting across his face. ”I always forget.”

”So the Avengers, huh?” you quickly continued, picking at the cupcake in your hand. ”That's one hell of a private security force.”

He peered at you confounded, his brows knitting together, but the expression soon melted into recognition and a teasing glitter in his eyes. ”Well, I swore it wasn't the mob.”

”Yeah but 'private security'?”

”You come up with a better name, then,” Bucky challenged, popping the last bite of his cupcake into his mouth, chewing contentedly as you struggled to counter with a better euphemism.

”Fine. We'll go with private security, then,” you conceded, mock-frown and pursed lips in place. ”We'll just ignore the fact you're all superpowered heroes.”

”I wouldn't... I'm not a hero.”

There it is again, the same sadness that tinged his voice when he'd told you he was a terrible person all those weeks ago. It was as if it had been hardcoded into him, and it made your blood boil with anger at the horrors Bucky must have been put through. You couldn't ask him, you were not even sure you'd want to know everything, and it broke your heart to hear him admit he's still afraid to trust himself. You so desperately wanted to help him, to make him see himself as you see him now; under no one's control, trying his best to fit into a world that must seem so strange to him.

”Bucky...”

”Do you even know what I've done?” he cut you off, his jaw set and his eyes full of despair. ”What they called me?”

”Of course I know-”

”Not that. Not the Winter Soldier.”

He didn't give you a chance to reply, instead revealing his left hand, clenched into a fist. The silver of the metal gleaned in the light from the fixtures hanging from the ceiling. Bucky let it fall to the counter, not hard enough to damage anything, but hard enough to emit an ominous thud. You couldn't help but look, to take in the myriad of plates that make up his hand, his arm.

”The Fist of HYDRA,” he bit out, the bitterness clear in his voice. ”A soldier is still a man, following orders. A fist is a force. It's destruction and pain. I was a weapon, and I always will be, no matter what they do to unscramble my brain.”

The last part came out in a seething half-whisper, and you fought the urge to take a step back. You could see it, the danger Bucky had been, the deliberate design of his arm to make it as efficient a weapon as any gun or knife. Maybe that was all Bucky could see in himself, but for you it wasn't enough to overshadow the man who tipped you with every purchase and who only fifteen minutes ago had hugged you tight.

”This...” You slowly let your hand slide over his fist, holding eye contact to let him know he can pull away. ”This may be HYDRA. But a fist isn't always clenched.”

His eyes darted down to his hand when you started prying his fingers open, offering little resistance at the sight of your dainty fingers intertwining with his. You were reluctantly mesmerized by how nimble they were, the way the plates shifted seamlessly with muted clicks to accommodate the new positioning. Bucky followed your lead, mimicking your movements until you were both resting on your elbows, palms touching and fingers laced together.

”This is not HYDRA,” you told him resolutely, giving his hand a squeeze and hoping he could feel it. ”This is Bucky. This is the guy who came in one night and couldn't decide on a cupcake. This is the guy who calls the Avengers 'private security'. This is the guy who saw me get assaulted in my workplace and decided to do something about it.” You disentangled your fingers, taking his hand and gently guiding it to your chin, letting the smooth metal caress your cheek. ”This is not a weapon. And neither are you.”

His fingers lingered on your jaw, barely putting any pressure on your skin, and you revelled in the feel of the smooth metal against you. Bucky let out a deep sigh, and just like that, his hand disappeared, once again hidden in his lap. It was a sigh of relief, as if a long-held tension simply collapsed and flowed out of him. His eyes avoided yours, looking down at his hands.

”I shouldn't have done what I did,” he mumbled apologetically. ”With those guys, I was-”

”...maybe a bit proactive,” you finished for him, refusing to let him try to shoulder all the blame. ”But I'm glad you were there. Maybe not at the time, but now, I am. It happened again, sort of, last week.” His eyes perked up, holding your gaze in quiet anticipation. ”He grabbed my wrist, just for a second before I pulled back. He left pretty soon after. I remember wishing you had been there, keeping me safe and telling me it would be okay.”

You didn't miss the way Bucky's eyes skated to your hands as if to check that you really were unharmed.

”I'm fine, he didn't hurt me,” you assured him, holding out your hands so he could see for himself. ”Actually kinda hurt more to admit that I missed you and wanted you there.”

Bucky took your hands in his, gently rubbing your wrists. You would be lying if you said it didn't make your knees a little weak, the soothing sensation of friction-created warmth spreading like wildfire.

”I'm sorry,” Bucky said, leaning in closer over the counter.

”I'm sorry, too, Bucky. And don't try to get me off the hook.”

He let out a soft laugh, nodding in concession as he let go of your hands. ”You're hopeless.”

”Sharing is caring, Bucky,” you rebutted with a wink.

He stayed the rest of the night, your only customer until closing time. You weren't sure if it was because of the talk you'd had, but he never tried to pay you as you brought him cupcake after cupcake. Not that you minded, you never tried to charge him. His only insistence was no more coffee, which you were all too happy to oblige with. You tentatively asked about the Avengers, and Bucky told you what he could, what he felt he was comfortable with, and in turn asked you about cupcakes and baking and what you had meant by not wanting to be stuck in an office. You told him about the first five years of your professional life, of pushing paper and hating the colour beige and mindless after work-drinks with people you ultimately never came to know. Bucky made a quippy remark that you would have hated the Army.

”What do you do with those?” he asked hours later when you were closing up, emptying the window display.

”Nothing, really,” you replied honestly, glancing down at the two boxes of cupcakes. ”I can't really sell them when they've stood in a window for an entire night. The draft from the windows does keep them relatively cool, but I've never thought to sell them. Some I eat before I go to bed or the day after if I feel like it. I usually just end up throwing them away. It's a shame, really. Waste of perfectly good cupcakes.”

”Then why put so many of them on display?” He almost managed to hide his yawn behind a particularly exaggerated bite of his fifth blueberry cupcake.

”I like the way it looks. The variety, the colours, the shapes. It's what draws customers. I'd do the same if I was open daytime, maybe even more so because I'd have to compete with other bakeries. Now I just compete with the night, with considerably lighter foot traffic. I want whoever passes to know that they can come in and get pretty much anything they could dream up. These just take one for the team.”

”I could take them.”

”Bucky, as much as I admire the way you casually eat five cupcakes in two hours, I'm not giving you a display window's worth to eat.”

”Not for myself,” Bucky clarified, folding the wrapper into a triangle. ”Someone asked me to bring back cupcakes.”

You did a double take. ”Wait, someone actually knows where you are?”

”Wanda. She... sort of found out I had been coming here, and we talked a bit about the... fight. She got a taste of the cupcakes you sent and said I had to bring more back.”

A light blush crept up your cheeks. It flattered you, knowing he'd opened up to the extent that someone else knew about you and that he'd been coming here.

”I... I'll box these up, then. You can take them home with you. Just let me clear up in the kitchen first, okay?”

Bucky nodded, and you hurried into the kitchen, butterflies in your stomach. You danced quietly around the kitchen, face scrunched up in glee. Body still buzzing, you retrieved lids for the boxes and put them in the fridge, setting about cleaning the kitchen for the night.

”Mind if I put on some music?” you called out, pulling out your phone, already searching for a good playlist.

”Go ahead,” came the muffled answer, and you finally found one you hadn't used in a while, pressing play.

It was mostly soft jazz, indie and instrumental piano, and you sometimes used it as your own personal rain sound playlist, the soft melodies lulling you to sleep. Right now, you were happy to settle with calming the electrical current that seemed to surge through you. It was as if you were fifteen again, gushing over a boy that showed even the faintest interest in you. Bucky trusted you enough to open up, however little, about his past, and he'd told someone about you, about the fight you'd had. Maybe it was all platonic and he felt guilty, but maybe it was more. Maybe it was his hand pulling you closer into the hug, his fingers ghosting along your jaw, his thumbs rubbing soft circles into the skin of your wrist.

You swayed in time with the music, willing your heartbeat to fall into rhythm with the song playing, meticulously wiping down surfaces as you went, your feet doing little steps to coincide with piano flourishes. This was okay. This was fine. He'd take his cupcakes, you'd say goodbye. Maybe hug. You'd count today's revenue, redo it because you'd probably lose count at some point. You'd dance up the stairs and listen to this playlist again, drifting off somewhere between Cat Powers and one of the piano instrumentals.

You danced your way through clean-up, humming along softly to the music. Grabbing the two boxes from the fridge, you positively skipped back out, only to skid to a halt. Bucky was slumped over the counter, head resting on his right arm, fast asleep. A few tresses of hair had loosened from the bun, falling over his face, barely moving under his inhales and exhales. You set down the boxes next to the coffee makers, tiptoeing up to him. His left hand still held a small piece of blueberry cupcake, and his lips were stained a tantalizing shade of purple from the berries. A smudge of frosting lingered at the corner of his mouth, beckoning you. Carefully so as not to wake him, you leaned over, sweeping away the hair from his face, touching your lips to his. For someone who saw himself as nothing but a ruthless killer, Bucky had the softest lips you'd ever kissed, plump and sweet from the blueberries. You savoured the moment, the feel of him so close, brushing upwards to catch the stray frosting. Bucky let out a long breath, his lips moving infinitesimally against yours. One final, gentle kiss and you broke free, straightening from your hunched-over position. You couldn't wake him, not when he was so soundly asleep. He deserved a good night's rest.

You hesitated by the till, cursing the button that would release the cashbox with that wretched _ding_. Bucky would surely wake up if you did that. No, you decided, the cashbox could wait. You were hardpressed to believe any kind of thief would break in if they saw someone at the counter, asleep or not. Sneaking back into the kitchen, you put the boxes back in the fridge, formulating a plan. One quick trip upstairs, hurried writing on a napkin and some clever maneuvering, and you were set. Turning off the lights in the kitchen, you quietly made your way upstairs.

* * *

_Bucky_

_Don't worry. I didn't have the heart to wake you. I don't know when you'll wake up, but I've made up the couch upstairs, if you want to stay a while longer. Go through the kitchen, there's a door at the far right corner. Code for the alarm is 954772. Up the stairs, I've left the front door unlocked._

_Sleep tight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Good? There was fluff. I think I broke myself writing the fluff. :)


	7. Bear With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re finally here, the end of the line. I had originally meant to post an epilogue to conclude, but I think it stands pretty well as is. I’ve had so much fun writing this fic, and I’m absolutely floored by the support I’ve received; every comment and kudos has been a gift, and I hope this is a fic you guys will return to and reread.
> 
> That being said, this doesn’t necessarily have to be the end for the awesome combo that is Bucky and cupcakes. If you have outtakes that you’d like to see, scenes you thought should have been in the fic but weren’t, or if there are oneshots set in the future of this verse that you’d like read, leave me an ask and I’ll see what I can whip up.
> 
> Recipe for the Bear With Me cupcakes now posted to my tumblr.

Bucky blinked, his mind returning from soft edges and a cool calm he hadn't experienced in years, a phantom sensation ghosting over his lips. His eyes found focus on something close to his face, his body going rigid at the sight of it. Blueberry cupcake. Without moving a muscle, he took in his surroundings as best he could. Empty and quiet save for the muted sound of cars passing by on the street outside. Dim lights, the first rays of sun warming his back. Warm. Something draped over him, soft. A blanket? His eyes fell back on the cupcake, noticing the small scrap of paper tucked just under his hand. Slowly straightening from his resting position, Bucky turned his head to take in his surroundings, his neck cracking loudly. There was indeed a blanket wrapped around him, a checkered fleece number that threatened to slide off of him. He pulled it tight around himself, picking up the paper to find your neat script greeting him.

_Bucky_

_Don't worry. I didn't have the heart to wake you. I don't know when you'll wake up, but I've made up the couch upstairs, if you want to stay a while longer. Go through the kitchen, there's a door at the far right corner. Code for the alarm is 954772. I've left the front door unlocked._

_Sleep tight._

A quick look at the clock on the wall to his right told him he'd slept for six hours, practically a full night's sleep by his standards. No nightmares, no waking up screaming and thrashing, just glorious nothingness that had cradled him through the night. Bucky looked down at the note again. He should leave. You'd given him the code for the alarm, surely the same system ran through the entire shop, and he could slip out quietly. He could leave a note, ask that you could send the cupcakes to the tower (and possibly tell you to overcharge, because let's face it, Stark was loaded enough to overpay for cupcakes).

Hastily, he found a napkin and a ballpoint pen behind the counter, scribbling down a thank you note for the blueberry cupcakes and a request for the rest to be sent to the tower. The napkin ripped a bit as he signed his name, the point of the pen pushed down too hard on the y. It was still legible, and Bucky smoothed out the fold, running his fingers along the tear to press it down. Now he just needed to figure out where to leave it. He looked around the shop again. No alarm panel, so he couldn't exit via the front door. If he left the napkin on the counter, it might take you some time to find it, and Bucky didn't want there to be any doubt surrounding his departure. He ventured into the kitchen, feeling like he was entering some kind of inner sanctum. His steps softened, the soles of his boots nigh soundless against the tiled floor.

Finding the alarm panel was not hard, placed next to the door at the far right corner, right where you'd said it would be. Bucky took stock of your kitchen. From the door, the first thing you'd see was the center kitchen island, the corner closest to the door inset with drawers. On top rested a large wooden cutting board. It was a good spot. He could leave the note on the cutting board, punch in the code to the alarm and then quickly exit through the nearby door. Easy.

Not so easy. The door that led up to your apartment suddenly seemed so inviting, calling out to him. All too sudden, Bucky found himself punching in the code on the panel, pulling the door open as soon as the little light turned green, the napkin stuffed in his back pocket. He rationalized that maybe you wouldn't see the note there, maybe you'd rush past it. It was only a napkin, after all. Or it could get blown away by the draft when he opened and closed the front door. You'd invited him up, he could at least sneak in, leave the note and then leave again.

Staying close to the wall, Bucky ascended the stairs, careful to keep quiet. At the top was a lonely paneled door, and for a few seconds, he hesitated, his hands hovering just inches away from the brass door knob. He should leave. _But you had let him sleep, giving him something he hadn't had in years._ He should just go with the previous plan, leave the note downstairs. _But he really wanted you to see his message._

”Shit...” Bucky muttered, a rush of exhilaration surging through his veins as he gripped the door knob, twisting it.

The door swung open, revealing your dusky apartment. He stepped inside, the floor creaking slightly under his feet. Quickly compensating his stance, Bucky pulled the door closed with a timid click, taking in your home. The layout didn't immediately scream apartment, it looked more like it had been converted, maybe from an old office space. The spaces were too open for a traditional apartment in a building of this age. Windows lined the wall, a kitchen was set up in the middle to break up the vastness of the floor space. Beyond the kitchen was a living room area, a dark chocolate brown couch just visible to him over the kitchen counter, and in front of that a tv. To the left, behind the kitchen he spied two doors, but it was one to the right that caught his attention. More accurately, it was the lack of a door that had him suddenly standing perfectly still, the doorway instead covered by a heavy piece of dark brown cloth.

Bucky slowly moved towards the kitchen, walking on his toes to keep quiet. The room to the right, the one with the cloth, had to be your bedroom, and he didn't want to risk waking you up. You worked all through the nights, you deserved all the sleep you could get. Chewing slightly on his bottom lip, he bent down to unlace his boots and toe them off. He pushed them off to the side and made a beeline for the kitchen counter, intent on setting the note down somewhere you would easily find it and then leave again.

His first option was the fridge, but found the fridge door was a mess of notes, photos and magnets stringed together to form some sort of poetry. Too cluttered to notice the addition of his note. The counter next to the fridge held both an electric kettle and a coffee maker. Bucky cocked his head; it was a good option. Maybe you had coffee or tea with your breakfast. You would notice something propped up against either contraption. He continued scanning the kitchen, his gaze lingering on a legal pad on the counter facing the living room area. It looked like a recipe, ingredients listed, amounts scratched and rewritten, brackets and arrows and abbreviations making up some sort of shorthand system of preparation. One word in particular stood out, his eyes zeroing in on it.

_Whiskey_

The note forgotten, Bucky walked over to the counter so he could read through the recipe. The headline read _Whiskey Lullaby_ and the rest was indeed a recipe, either in process of being worked out or rewritten with all the scratched out amounts. He let his right index finger run over the page, hovering over each line to read what you had written, feeling the indentations where you had pushed down the pen harder. The more he deciphered the recipe, the more he grew convinced that this had to be the recipe for the cupcakes you'd sent him. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Whiskey Lullaby. He'd have to look that up when he got-

”Mornin'.”

The sound of your voice startled him, his stance shifting immediately into flight mode, his pulse quickening to a thunder in his ears. Bucky registered the sound of something ripping, but in that moment, he didn't care. The only immediate priority was to assess, to fight, to flee if necessary. At first, he didn't see you, his frazzled mind expecting a target much more intimidating. When finally his eyes found you, focused, a sense of shame mixed with wonder washed over him. You stood leaning up against the doorway, the curtain pushed to the side behind you, your hair a glorious mess around your sleepy features. Bucky's eyes stuttered over the oversized t-shirt you wore, the backlight from your bedroom only hinting at the soft shapes underneath.

”H-hi. Good morning,” he stuttered, hastily looking down to avoid getting caught staring.

Shame welled up again as the ripping sound he'd heard began to make sense. The page with the recipe for the cupcakes had been torn off, only a couple of lines left above the tear. Dreading the sight, Bucky slowly brought up his hand, his heart lurching with worry as he saw his fist clenched, the rest of the recipe crumpled up between his fingers.

”Shit... I'm so sorry.” He floundered, setting down the page, trying to smooth it out.

”'S okay. I think that recipe is a lost cause,” you appeased him, a lazy smile gracing your face. ”Apparently there is no baking equivalent to 'write drunk, edit sober'.”

Bucky gave a low chuckle, trying once again to smooth out the recipe.

”Well, don't let me interrupt,” you said, stifling a yawn. ”I'm just gonna...” You pointed vaguely to the doors behind the kitchen, and Bucky couldn't help the blush that crept up his cheeks. ”The couch is all set, you should be able to get a few more hours of sleep. Sorry for the window, I should get some blinders or something. You think you'll be okay?”

He meant to protest, to say he was leaving, but his words died in his throat and turned into a mute nod at your encouraging smile and the way your arms lightly swayed as you walked past him. Feet seemingly glued to the floor, Bucky silently berated himself. This was not how it was gonna go. Now that you'd seen him, enforced the idea of him taking the couch, he couldn't leave. His ma would surely rise from her grave and whoop him upside his head for doing something so rude. A door opened and closed and Bucky let a defeated sigh slip. This was not how he had planned. He snorted. For all the years of being a master assassin, a brilliant tactician, he sure was easy to render helpless. Glancing over to the couch, he considered his options. Leaving was out of the question. He supposed he could go lie down, but not fall asleep. After all, he'd gotten a solid six hours of sleep downstairs, he'd made do with much less for a long time. Then, when you were once again fast asleep, he could write a new note, and then slip out.

Regaining his ability to move, Bucky walked over to the couch, his heart swelling at the care you'd taken to make sure he'd have everything he'd need. A simple white sheet covered the seats, tucked into the seam between the seats and the back. At one end, several pillows were piled on top of each other, while a comforter and a blanket were neatly folded at the other end. The couch would have been more than enough, but Bucky still left one pillow and the blanket, placing the others gently on the coffee table in front of the couch. Hesitant to undress, he shook out the blanket and laid down, spreading it over himself.

The toilet flushed, followed by the tap running for a couple of seconds and the door opening and closing again. Instinctively, Bucky burrowed further under the blanket as if there was a need to convince you he was already asleep after mere minutes.

”Goodnight, Bucky,” came your voice, fleeting from behind the couch.

”Goodnight,” he answered perfunctorily, catching a brief glance of you as you pulled the curtain aside to enter your room. The light once again cast your silhouette into sharp focus for the briefest of moment, and Bucky quickly screwed his eyes shut.

He could do this. He just needed to wait it out. Outside, cars were rushing by, the city already buzzing awake, the sound oddly soothing to him. Clenching his jaw, Bucky turned over, his back against the windows, head resting against his good arm and his left tucked under him. It was a futile safety measure. If he had a nightmare, his own body weight would do nothing to keep him from lashing out. He still did it, feeling like he at least tried to incapacitate himself. The dull sound of the city still needled its way into his consciousness, and he could feel himself slipping. Bucky tensed, forcing his body into alertness.

”Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he whispered to himself, needing something to focus on that wasn't the lulling buzz that threatened to overtake him. ”You were born 10th March 1917, your friends called you Bucky. You had three sisters...” He shut his eyes again. His sisters. Lightning quick images of bouncing curls and tittering laughs flashed through his mind, but he couldn't find their names. He knew them, had asked Steve, written them down in one of his notebooks, why couldn't he remember? Pulse quickening, Bucky could feel his breathing growing more laboured. Swallowing thickly, he forced the memory aside, drawing deep breaths. It was there, the memory was still there. It was okay.

”You served in the 107th, your best friend w- is Steve Rogers. Stever Rogers is Captain America. You're...” He was loathe to linger on HYDRA, on what they had done. His bionic arm clenched under his torso. Even though it was new, kindly assembled by T'Challa's best engineers and scientists, the reason for it was still a product of HYDRA, of being turned inside out, stripped of everything he had been. ”You were the Winter Soldier,” Bucky continued through gritted teeth. ”You are free. Your name is Bucky.”

He kept on repeating, adding details as they came to him. Boxing titles. Names of Howling Commandos. Over and over again, anchoring himself to the man he was. It did little to help him stay awake, and he soon drifted off.

It started out so good. Soft lips ghosting over his, a soothing hand on his shoulder. He couldn't find a face to focus on, but somehow he just _knew_ it was you. Bucky allowed himself to relax, lean into your touch and revel in the sound of your laugh. He never even noticed the shift, the heavy blanket of fear that snaked its way up his body, settling in his chest, slowly constricting. When your laughter died out, he didn't immediately react. Only when a wheezing sound reached his ears did he find your face in the nothingness and his insides froze. His metal arm was reached out, hand clasped around your throat, slowly tightening its grip. You tried to plead with him, but the words would not spill from your lips, and Bucky frantically tried to let go, but his body wouldn't obey him.

He awoke screaming, his left arm stretched out in front of him, fist clenched around an imagined throat. Blind rage coursed through his veins, the desire to just _rip the damn thing off_ boiling under the surface. With another bellowing roar, he swung his clenched fist, the metal colliding with the couch, wood splitting under its force. Logically, Bucky knew it wouldn't do any damage to the arm, just like tucking it under himself wouldn't prevent him from lashing out in his dreams. But he just needed to pound it against something, the urge to destroy the bionic arm overpowering.

”Bucky!”

Your voice cut through his frenzy, and he froze, left arm reared back for another punch. The serum had improved his physique to the point where he rarely became winded, but here he was, panting, cold sweat plastering his hair to his face. There was a gaping hole in the back of the couch, springs and stuffing visible, the floor behind covered in wood splinters.

”Bucky?”

Slowly he sought you out, eyes skittering back and forth until they landed on your bare feet, travelling up your bare legs, past the t-shirt that still made his heart stutter. Bucky was afraid of what he'd see once he reached your face. Fear, to be sure. Pity, hate, disgust. He should have left the second he woke up. When he finally dared lift his gaze to look at you, it felt as if something caved inside him. No fear. No hate, no pity, no regret. Your eyes were trained on him, eyebrows knit together in worry. Bucky averted his eyes and let out a ragged breath, frustration and shame forcing a thick lump in his throat.

”Bucky...”

His hand, and he cursed that it had to be his left, shot out at the sound of footsteps coming closer. You shouldn't be close to him. He'd punched a hole through your couch, how easy wouldn't it be for him to bruise your delicate skin, break your fragile bones. Bucky shook his head, willing away the violent images. He was better than this. He had to be.

”I'm- M-my name...” he began, his voice breaking under the weight of the emotions running through him.

There was gentle pressure against his left hand, and his breath caught in his throat. You had ignored his warning and approached him, kneeling next to the couch with your chin resting carefully against his hand. There was complete and utter trust glowing in your eyes as you held his gaze, dainty hands coming up to hold his hand to your face.

”Your name is Bucky Barnes,” you supplied calmly, sitting perfectly still to allow him to get used to your presence.

”Bucky,” he affirmed quietly, his breaths long and shivering.

He felt you nod against the palm of his hand as you continued: ”You're in Brooklyn. You're safe. You come here to eat cupcakes sometimes. You're an Avenger. You keep me safe. You're Bucky Barnes. You're a good man.”

There was a beat of silence before Bucky let out a deep breath, tension releasing from his shoulders, his arms. The hand resting against your face fell limp to the couch, his eyes drifting close to compose himself. He briefly heard you get up, your hand touching his chin to rub soothing circles before disappearing.

”I'll get you some tea, okay?”

Bucky gave a weak nod, curling his body into fetal position, cradling his left arm to keep it close so he wouldn't hurt you. He focused on his breathing, on the pleasant sounds of domestic chores coming from the kitchen. Water running, cabinets opening and closing, the boiling of the kettle like rain against a tin roof, the scent of toast wafting towards him. It painted a picture of home that he so desperately wanted to stay in. Just... detach himself and linger for a while.

”Hey, Bucky...”

Pulled back to reality by your voice, Bucky slowly unfurled himself, eyes fluttering open. You sat next to him again, holding a small tray with a steaming mug of tea next to a plate with buttered toast.

”Figured you might be hungry, I hope toast's okay,” you spoke, holding out the tray for him to take.

”It's... it's good. Perfect.”

Pulling himself up to sit, Bucky took the tray, only to have it crack slightly under the pressure from his bionic arm. He had to fight the urge to drop it, pulling his left hand back. His eyes immediately sought yours to silently apologize, wishing he could turn around so that his good arm was the one closest to you. You didn't say anything about the tray, only offering an encouraging smile and an urging look that told him to eat and drink. Setting down the tray on his lap, Bucky took the mug in his right hand, trembling and afraid that he'd still break it, bringing it to his lips to take a sip. The taste of bittersweet lemon coated his tongue, bringing back pleasant memories of the cupcake he'd eaten his second time. He set down the mug, picking up a piece of toast, still using his right hand.

You got up to let him eat his breakfast in peace. Bucky picked away at the toast, stopping only to take a sip of tea. He heard you going through cabinets, figuring you were fixing breakfast for yourself, but when a mixer whirred to life, he couldn't help but turn his head. Your back was to him,  pouring something into a stand mixer.

”Breakfast?” he asked, his voice still a bit rough from the screams he'd woken up to.

You turned round, quirking an eyebrow. ”Not unless you count cupcakes as breakfast.” You eyed his tray, the single slice of toast left and the mug, a little steam rising from it. ”Wanna come help?”

His hesitance had to be written plain across his face, because you tilted your head, eyes glittering with something he could only describe as hope. ”Come on, I could use a hand. It'll be fun.”

Bucky considered the invitation. His left hand lay prone by his side, and even though he knew it had been a nightmare, that he wouldn't just lose control over his body, the image of slowly throttling you was still etched in his mind's eye. On the other hand, he could use the distraction. It was cupcakes. Nothing even remotely similar to his dream. Draining the last of the tea and grabbing the last piece of toast, Bucky gently lifted the tray and got up, nothing the elated expression on your face.

”What are we making?” he asked quietly, placing himself opposite you, the counter creating a barrier between you.

”Panda cupcakes,” you replied happily, taking the tray and putting it down by the sink.

”Panda cupcakes?”

”You'll see.”

You flashed him a grin before crouching, popping back up with a small mixing bowl. From a drawer to the left, you pulled out a balloon whisk, nudging the two towards him. He accepted the tools, watching in bewilderment as you zipped back and forth, checking on the mixer, fetching ingredients and measurements for him.

”I'd normally eyeball this, but I figured you would appreciate exact amounts,” you said, placing the last item on the counter in front of him, a page from the legal pad with amounts and instructions for, well, whatever it was.

He gave a nod, and you returned to the mixer. Eyeing through the instructions, Bucky felt confident. Didn't seem too hard. Add, mix, nothing fancy. He reached for the cream cheese, scraping the correct amount into the bowl, stirring with the whisk to cream it a bit. The egg that followed turned out to be a bit of an adventure. He considered trying to crack it open one-handed, but realized he would most likely end up with bits of shell in the bowl. Giving it a tap againt the edge of the counter, he took great care to hold it as gently as possible with his left as he cracked it open... only to get so giddy in the process that his left hand flinched, crushing the empty shell half, sending a myriad of shell bits into the bowl. Bucky cursed under his breat, looking at the tools available for something he could use to remove the shells.

”You doing okay?” you asked over your shoulder, tipping flour into the mixing bowl.

Determined not to have you see his little failure, Bucky steeled himself. ”Yeah, yeah, absolutely!”

It was perhaps a tad too enthusiastic, but he didn't want you to turn around and see him frantically trying to save his part of the recipe. Finding nothing that could ostensibly help him, he was left with only one option; using his hands. Some of the bits that had landed on the cream cheese were easy to remove, but it was absolutely infuriating to catch the ones that had landed in the egg white, tauntingly slipping out of his grasp. He was about ready to hurl the bowl out a window, when finally he got hold of the last piece. All the broken bits of shell had been deposited into the still intact shell half, and Bucky quickly moved on to measure the sugar and vanilla, grabbing the whisk to mix it all together.

”Is... Is it supposed to be like this?” he asked, tilting the bowl and looking at the slightly soupy mix therein.

You turned off the mixer, and in two quick steps you were there, looking at the mix.

”Perfect,” you assured him. ”Okay, grab a cupcake pan from there,” You pointed to a small cabinet next to the oven, ”and I'll find some liners for you.”

Bucky felt a little wary to move into the kitchen, essentially occupying the same space as you, but he told himself it was just for a little while. He moved quickly, long strides and fluid movements as he opened the cabinet, grabbing the pan and going back to his previous position. Waiting for him there were solid black cupcake liners. Placing them in the pan was easy, if somewhat finicky as Bucky once again tried to avoid using his left hand.

”All done?”

You came up with the mixer bowl, holding three spoons against it. Bucky gave a curt nod, pushing the pan towards you.

”Okay, so this is for you.” You handed him one of the spoons, setting down the bowl next to the pan. ”I'm gonna spoon a bit of batter into each liner, and you're gonna follow and put, like... two tablespoons of the cream cheese-mix over, okay?”

Another nod, and the two of you set off, Bucky following your movements closely, meticulously measuring two heaping tablespoons to pour over the batter you scooped into the liners. He still wasn't sure how this was going to become panda cupcakes, but he trusted he'd see the meaning of the name sooner or later.

”What now?” he asked when you picked up the pan to put it in the oven, liners filled and topped.

”Now we wait.”

Bucky had hoped it wouldn't come to that. Waiting meant silence, silence meant wandering thoughts. He moved into the kitchen again, helping you clean up. In truth, there wasn't much to do, but he was nevertheless thankful for the small distraction. Your fingers brushed up against each other as he handed you the cracked eggshells, the brief touch sending an electric current running through him.

”I'm... I'm sorry,” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze. ”About before.”

”Bucky, it's...

”Don't say it's fine. Please. I punched a hole in your couch. I could have hurt you.” He swallowed hard. ”I still could, and... and I don't want to.”

”Then trust that you won't,” you protested, hands reaching out to touch him.

”I can't. You think I don't want that? Be a normal person, sleep at night without having to wake up in terror because of nightmares?” Bucky tried to keep his voice level, but could already sense an increase in volume and pitch. ”They stripped away the programming, they can't say the words and bring him back, but they can't take away the memories. I'll always remember them, every single one, every mission, every debrief, every name and every wound.”

”That's not all that you are, Bucky.”

”But it's a damn big part of me. I don't know how to get rid of them, how not to wake up screaming. I almost strangled Steve once. I thought... I dreamed of you this morning. That I lost control of myself and tried to kill you.”

That got your attention, your mouth falling open a bit, eyes wide and inquiring.

”You... you dreamed of me?”

”We- Yeah. And all of a sudden, my hand is around your throat, and I can't stop myself, and I'm screaming because I don't-” Bucky inhales, a shuddering breath to steady himself. ”I don't want to hurt you.”

”I don't think you'd want to hurt me, Bucky. I can't say I fully understand the nightmares you're having, but they don't define who you are, okay? They're there, but they don't get to decide who you become.”

”They already are,” Bucky interjected. ”You think I'd ever dare sleep in the same bed as someone else? I'd be afraid to go to sleep in case I wake up having killed them because they turned over in bed or tried to touch me.”

You bit your lip, fidgeting with a left over cupcake liner in your hands. ”What if that happened? The... touching part. And nothing happened?”

Bucky furrowed his brow. ”What are you talking about?”

”I... I kinda kissed you. Before heading up.”

Now it was Bucky's turn to be left slackjawed. His right hand came up to his mouth, fingertips ghosting over his lips, the fleeting sensation of something soft against his lips brought to the front of his mind.

”You kissed me?”

Your eyes bulged, misunderstanding the tone of his voice and fearing you'd done more harm than good. ”I'm sorry, you were sleeping and it was just a quick peck, well, pecks. Nothing more. And nothing happened. You didn't- you didn't hurt me. I'm sorry, I'm-”

Bucky didn't let you finish, leaning in to capture your lips in a kiss. It was almost as if he could see it before him, the sense memory and your confession enough to play the scene.  You let out a soft sigh, gently reciprocating the kiss, hands coming up to caress his face. Bucky reveled in the closeness. So maybe he wasn't asleep right now. Maybe it had only been one kiss, a quick peck. Maybe it hadn't been during a nightmare. But it had happened. A full night's sleep, not out of sheer exhaustion. Someone touching him, kissing him even, and it had been like he was completely normal.

Breaking off the kiss, Bucky pressed light pecks to your forehead, leaning down to tuck his head into the crook of your neck.

”Thank you,” he mumbled against your skin, smiling as you giggled and jerked.

Your hands slid down across his torso and up around his shoulders, holding him close. ”Bucky...” you began hesitantly. ”You do know it might have meant nothing? You not reacting when I kissed you. I mean, I still don't think you'd want to hurt me, but I don't want you to...”

”I know, I know, doll.” Bucky straightened so he could look you in the eyes. ”But it was the first night I've slept soundly. No nightmares, no exhaustion. I slept through you kissing me. It was something.”

”Five cupcakes in two hours?” you teased, your eyes crinkling wonderfully as you smiled.

”Maybe. You make me feel better. Even if we've fought, you’ve always made me feel like a regular person. And you found out who I really was, and didn't run for the hills.”

”Couldn't see one for all the houses.”

A timer rang out, signalling the cupcakes were ready. You got up on your toes to give Bucky a quick peck before turning to remove the cupcakes from the oven. He observed as you put them on a rack to cool, opening the cupboard above and reaching up to grab something white from a shelf high up. Your t-shirt rode up, revealing a pair of short sleep shorts, adorned with mini-cupcake. He felt like he should look away, but couldn't quite keep his eyes away, nor hold back the chuckle that slipped past his lips.

”Hey, they were on sale, and I like them,” you berated him, having guessed what caused the outburst.

”I'm not saying anything,” Bucky promised, holding up his hands.

”You'd better not, mister,” you told him warningly, shutting the cupboard and tossing the package at him.

He caught it easily, surreptitiously trying to read the label. Sugar paste.

”What do we need this for?”

”I don't have white confetti sprinkles and pandas need eyeballs,” came the reply while you rifled through a drawer, giving a loud hoot when you pulled out a neon green straw.

You explained that this would become part of the panda's eyes, and that you would need to roll out the sugar paste and use cut-off straws to cut out circles while the cupcakes cooled. Bucky tried asking if it wasn't easier to just buy white sprinkles, which set you off on a long rant while you rolled out a piece of sugar paste about the state of sprinkle-availability that he could only assume was a travesty if you felt the best option was to make your own sprinkles. All in all, it wasn't such a bad task, providing him with something to focus on, grounding him further. The way your body half-leaned into his started feeling natural, and your hands accidentally bumping into each other as you placed the cut out circles on a piece of parchment didn't startle him as much.

Towards the end, Bucky was left alone to cut out the circles while you prepared the frosting, humming quietly to yourself. With everything set up, he was eager to see how you would turn the cupcakes into pandas. Two bowls, one with dark chocolate chips and one with chocolate sprinkles, had been placed on the counter next to the circles, and you were holding a pen in your hand. Patiently, you guided him through the process. Use the edible ink marker pen to draw pupils onto the white sprinkles. Frost the cupcakes, then roll them in sugar to flatten the mound. Mark ears, eyes and nose with chocolate chips. Put a little frosting on the back of the white sprinkles and stick them to the chocolate chip eyes. Mark mouth with chocolate sprinkles. He struggled a bit with the sprinkles, and you ended up with a system where he first drew the pupils while you frosted, then switched so he placed the chocolate chips and you took care of the sprinkles.

* * *

 

”Panda cupcakes,” Bucky said contentedly, holding one of the frosted cupcakes in his hands

All cupcakes were done, the counter littered with sprinkles and sugar. You were in the midst of placing them on a tray to put in the fridge, leaving two for you to eat.

”No pandas were harmed during the making of these cupcakes,” you quipped with a laugh, pulling open the fridge and placing them on an unoccupied shelf.

”Well, there were a couple of eyeballs on the floor...”

”Oh, don't be gross. I don't think I ever want to make sprinkles again as it is.”

Bucky leaned up against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. It was hard not to be taken with you, the ease and calm you emanated, the litheness in your movements. He tried not to stare at you too much, still clad in the shorts and the loose t-shirt. Lingering too long would lead down a road he probably shouldn't take. Like whether you wore anything under that shirt, and...

”What now?” he quickly asked, interrupting his own licentious thoughts.

You hummed, spinning around on the tips of your toes, swaying back to him. ”They need a name,” you suggested, picking up your cupcake and peeling off the wrapper.

”Well, that too, but...”

”But what?”

”This.” Bucky gestured to the space between them. ”I don't know if you- I mean, I don't expect you to-”

”I'd like to try,” you replied, understanding what he was trying to say.

”I won't be perfect.”

”Neither am I.”

”I'll be gone sometimes. Don't know for how long,” he said, trying to fight the feeling that he was attempting to discourage you.

”I work all nights”, you countered, leaning in closer to him, taking a bite of your cupcake. ”Who knows when we'd really see each other.”

”I'll have nightmares. I don't think I'd trust myself to sleep in your bed.”

”Good thing I've got a good couch. Bit worn, but perfectly okay.”

Bucky let out a huff, his eyes darting to the hole in the couch where his fist had punched through it.

”I want to try. I really do. It won't be easy, and I don't know if I ever will be, just... bear with me, okay?”

Your mouth split into a megawatt smile, and it took Bucky all of five seconds to realize why, looking down to the panda cupcake in his hand. You pulled him into a hug, Bucky barely having enough time to set down the treat so it wouldn't get squished between you. He let his right hand snake around you waist, and after a few seconds of hesitation, his left followed, exerting the barest force to hold you closer.

”We'll try,” you assured him, and Bucky felt an intense sense of relief flood him. ”I trust you, Bucky.”

It was all he could ask, all he would ever ask. He knew he'd have bad days, would count on them from the start, but somehow, standing in your kitchen, holding your body so close to his, it didn't seem to matter as much. He'd have you. You and cupcakes.

And that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always welcome!


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